WHAT'S IN FRONT OF ME {Stories}

 

 

In front of me, the inert field stretched as far as the eye could see and beyond, never finding an end, for now everything was like that, desolate. I didn't expect to find anything else for miles around, no grass, no leaves, no hint of life. If I saw a cockroach I would be happy, I would have something to eat. He was starving. In my canteen I carried the mixture that my grandfather had taught me to make, with a thick, bitter taste. When I started taking it, I thought it was vomitive, but it hydrated like no other liquid, which in itself was scarce. When you can't find water for hundreds or thousands of miles, and the whole world is like that, you need to make the most of what you have. Unfortunately, my grandfather never got to see what his invention would result in or the conditions under which it would be used: he died when all this was just being cultivated. He never saw the end.

The earth creaked with my every step, with a dry, unpleasant, sometimes faint sound. I had to be careful: there were points where the floor could sink, leaving me trapped. The land had become a dangerous place. He was in a hurry to find some shelter. A chemical cloud could be seen in the distance. Still, constant in my footsteps. It wouldn't be long before he was on top of me. It was important to calculate how long I could keep running, as it was essential to reserve my energy, since food was extremely scarce, not just liquid. Lightning flashes could be seen in the distance, threatening. It was likely that the remnants of some fuel had been scattered, so the storm would start fires that would not end. If there was anything alive in these lands, there wouldn't be any more when I finished, including myself if I couldn't find a place to hide. I wondered if I would ever find a place where I could take off my gas mask: I was starting to get tired of wearing it squeezing my face all the time.

After a while of walking, with the threat almost upon me, I was able to find a shelter: it was a ruined building, which preserved almost intact one of its rooms in the west wing. I noticed the kind of building that was in front of me, because in the end, when it all happened, there were those who tried to protect themselves from the catastrophe: bunkers, walls covered with lead, steel and solid concrete, warehouses with food, medicine and vaccines, airtight rooms, among many other means of defense. This, in particular, was a room covered with protective materials: just enough to be safe. I hurried to take cover, the cloud wasn't too far away. I walked in, closed the door behind me, and turned on my flashlight. I wasn't afraid that there was something or someone dangerous inside, nothing was alive anymore. I wondered if he was the last human on Earth. Perhaps in faraway places, on other continents, or even on this very one, there could be someone in a situation like mine, even a group, even if the possibility was minimal. After all, it was almost impossible for me to stay alive.

He had planned to live in the mountains, but finding food didn't seem feasible; Wherever I moved, I could hardly find canned remains or jars that had not somehow been invaded by fungi or bacteria. In addition, he could find materials to produce Grandpa's mixture, or even insects, a rather substantial meal. Luckily, it seemed that, somewhere, some presence seemed to have heard me, and in front of me moved a small, furry creature with four legs and a small tail: it was the first mammal I'd seen in years, one associated with plagues, one that had probably had a role in human extinction. Outside of insects, this was the first form of life I saw. Perhaps it was the last specimen of its species, or even of its entire genus. I watched the curious rodent, sad, starving, looking for some bug or anything to feed on, it almost reminded me of myself in that situation. I thought for a moment that she and I were the last mammals on Earth. I wasn't sure, but it was very likely. I thought his end was a pity. No, rather a real misfortune: if I didn't survive, then mammals would have ceased to exist. It was almost certain.

That gruesome ending did not leave my mind. As much as it hurt, I couldn't let the rat escape. It didn't take me long to pierce it with my knife, and then cook it. I think it was the leanest, richest thing I'd eaten in a long time. I really tried really hard to give it a good taste and it was worth it: I really enjoyed it.

It was a sad end for the last specimen of a species. Nevertheless, it served to keep me alive, though it was likely that my end would be even worse, even more tragic. With me, an entire genus of vertebrates would have been wiped out. The term of another species, the one that had dominated the planet; A success in terms of ambition, a biological failure, since the life span of human beings on the planet had been extremely short compared to that of other species. Not satisfied, we destroy several species much more successful than ours, being victims and participants of our aberrant acts. I think until the end I acted like a human.

I went out as soon as the storm was over, satisfied and sad, with my gas mask on, still thinking about the rat. I wondered if there was anything left of us alive somewhere, knowing deep down that it wasn't.

 

The end

 

Paya Frank @ Blogger

THE OBSESSED by Alfonso Álvarez Villar

 

 

Psychiatrists classify among feelings and tendencies what they call "obsessive impulses", that is, those forces that, in a more or less irresistible way, incite us to do something that goes beyond the framework of our prejudices or moral norms, but that at the same time it falls within our habitual desires and passions.

Who has not felt the temptation - as more than one psychologist has said - to throw any person casually leaning on its curb into a well? Who has not been disturbed at some time in their life by the pathological suggestion of pressing the alarm bell, for no reason, on a train in full speed? And so in this same tone we could cite example after example, occurring in normal people, but without failing to underline the highly rare nature of this phenomenon.

Well, despite the unusual label that psychology gives to this "experience", it is so common for me that I am going to feel like a different man when Doctor X manages to remove it from my spirit (assuming he succeeds).

But, by Jupiter!, ill-considered reader, do not believe that the person who writes this is a complete madman. I swear on my honor. A little bit fantastic, yes, I am, and I also have a bit of an analytical and verbose mentality. But this is not enough reason for me to consider myself insane (I am now tempted to write some foul words here so that my readers feel offended).

And returning to our topic: it seems to me that I had said that that "demon of perversity" (that's what that other maniac Allan Poe calls him) was almost my daily bread. Temptations of this type, such as shouting in the middle of a symphony audition, or the much more gruesome one of murdering loved ones like my own parents, without, as one would expect, any motive, frequently assailed me. I can also refer to the case of that girlfriend I had two years ago, and from whom in the peak moments of our passion I was forced to separate myself from her, a victim of strange desires to strangle her. But I don't want to go into too much detail telling you the background of my "case."

Because, in fact, I must say that until just six months ago, that phenomenon would not have presented a pathological aspect, and in any case, it would have remained a mere easily repressed inclination, without translation into the external world. I think it is convenient in this regard to summarize here the medical history that Doctor X keeps in his files. Undertaking this task, then, I must tell my readers that from the age of 14 to 19 these symptoms appeared in exceptional cases, although more frequently than in the majority of people. But, in reality, this process did nothing more than follow an arithmetic progression throughout those five years. I am referring rather (and I use psychological terms because I have always been a fan of psychology) to the date on which this obsessive tendency was projected onto a real level.

My memory has failed me since then: the electroshocks applied to my brain have made me forget many of the things that have happened in recent months. I only seem to remember that then I was in a continuous nightmare. Any circumstance or any object created that pathological state in me. It was increasingly difficult for my will to veto the externalization of those impulses. This must have lasted five or six months.

I also remember, although in a very blurred and very distant way, that blasphemy (I am very religious), which I uttered at the top of my lungs in the middle of a theater full of audiences. And now I remember (one image is linked to another) that wedding in which both parties were good friends of mine. The priest had already twice asked the witnesses to the ceremony to communicate before tying the sacramental bond if they found any impediment in that union. The power of my will was already on the verge of collapsing. And indeed, when repeating the warning for the third time, I exclaimed in a stentorian voice that yes, there was an impediment. Of course I had the good idea of ​​pretending to be the victim of an epileptic seizure, so that stupidity had no consequences. The trick of the attack helped me on more than one occasion to escape with a certain decorum from other situations that were even more ridiculous.

For example, I know that the series of extravagant acts I committed at that time reached a truly alarming number. I repeat that I have forgotten almost everything, but I think I remember a certain punch I gave to a peaceful passer-by and a no less categorical hug to the Lady of Elche in the Prado Museum.

I am going, therefore, to limit myself to referring here to the decisive fact that has me locked up in this asylum cell. I also want to justify to my readers that absurd action that gave rise to so many comments in the press. It is precisely these comments that have prompted me to write these lines, because, frankly, I am already tired of seeing myself treated like an abnormality by people less intelligent than me. To hell with them!… But let's get back to the thread of our story.

Of course, I can assure you above all that it happened in one of the stations in Madrid, and around noon (these data have also been confirmed by the newspapers that have come into my hands). On the other hand, the reader did not ask me what I was doing in that place and at that time. The fact is that under a heatwave sun I was walking along the empty platforms when, suddenly, I was stopped in front of one of those gigantic electric locomotives that my readers may have seen at some point pulling an endless row of carriages. It was, in effect (so the newspapers say), the express machine prepared ad hoc destined for I don't know what Spanish city. But these last ones are reflections made after the fact. I stood still, I repeat, and as if attracted by an irresistible force, I began to carefully analyze the connecting rods, the nuts and in general the smallest mechanisms of that steel monster.

All this lasted approximately ten minutes, because when my gaze fell upon the half-open door of the vehicle, I was assaulted by the sudden and irresistible idea (which I transformed into reality) of getting inside.

Here memories fade like shreds of a fantastic dream that the lights of dawn dissipate. I guess, of course, that, victim of another new temptation, I must have started the convoy, by dint of manipulating the levers of the machinery, because all that follows is a "sensation of movement" or, to put it more precisely, a crazy race of two rails that were narrowing towards me at dizzying speed, never ending. I also seem to remember the telegraph poles that slid from one side to the other of the road, as if they wanted to flee.

I guess that the fear of falling into the clutches of the railroad employees (who must have noticed my "maneuver") prevented my hand from undoing what my obsessed mind had started, but it is no less true that "then" the wind that whipped my face when I looked out the window and the rapid procession of the tops of the pine trees that quickly followed each other to the right and left, inoculated me with a wild joy, very difficult to discover now. Then I think I got tired (I get tired of everything) and about a hundred kilometers from Madrid I abandoned the convoy in a deserted place from where I walked back.

My memories are blurring again to an even more intense degree, and furthermore I have no desire to continue this story. The vision of a Court and judges who acquitted me pass confusingly through my memory (it is known that, giving in to a new temptation, I informed the police of my "feat"). The fact is that now I am in this sanatorium (not crazy) where I am recovering.

 

END

THE ABYSS Leonidas Andreiev

 

 

The day was drawing to a close, but the young couple continued to walk and talk, paying no attention to the time or the road. In front of them, in the shade of a tree, stood the dark mass of a grove, and among the branches of the trees, like burning coals, the sun burned, inflaming the air and transforming it into glittering golden dust. The sun appeared so close and luminous that everything seemed to vanish; He alone remained, and painted the road with his own crimson tints. It hurt the eyes of passers-by, who turned their backs, and suddenly everything that fell within their field of vision was extinguished, it became the tall trunk of a fir tree that shone through the greenery like a candle

in peaceful and clear, and small and intimate. A little farther away, a short mile away, the red one set in a darkened room; The reddish glow of the road stretched before them, and every stone cast its long black shadow; and the girl's hair, bathed in the rays of the sun, now shone with a golden nimbus. A loose hair, separated from the rest, fluttered in the air like a golden thread woven by a spider.

The first shadows of dusk did not interrupt or change the course of their conversation. It went on as before, intimate and quiet; He went on to discuss the same theme: the strength, beauty, and immortality of love. They were both very young; The girl was not more than seventeen years old; Ncmovctsky had just turned twenty-one. They both wore student uniforms: she in the modest brown dress of a female school student, her companion in the elegant attire of a technology student. And, like their conversation, everything around him was young, beautiful, and pure. Their figures, erect and supple, advanced with a light, elastic step; Their cool voices, uttering even the most vulgar words with thoughtful tenderness, were like a rivulet on a quiet spring night, when the snow has not yet quite melted on the mountainsides.

They walked, rounding the bend of an unknown road, and their long shadows, with absurdly small heads, now advanced separately, now emerged together in a long, narrow strip, like the shadow of a poplar. But they did not see the shadows, for they were too absorbed in their talk. As he spoke, the young man did not take his eyes off the girl's beautiful face, over which the setting sun seemed to have left a measure of its delicate tints. As for her, she bent her eyes over the path, pushing aside the tiny pebbles with the tip of her parasol, and watched now one foot, now the other, as they emerged from under her dark dress.

The path was interrupted by a dusty ditch with footprints imprinted on them. For a moment, the two young men stopped. Zinochka raised his head, looked about him with a puzzled air, and asked:

"Do you know where we are?" I had never been here.

His companion carefully examined their surroundings.

-Yes, I know. There, behind the hill, is the city. Give me your hand. I'll help you cross.

He stretched out his hand, white and thin as a woman's, not marred by hard work. Zinochka was cheerful. She wanted to leap over the ditch by herself, and run, crying, "Get me, if you can!" But he restrained himself, bowed his head with modest gratitude, and timidly stretched out his hand, which retained its childish morbidity. Nemovetsky felt the urge to squeeze the trembling little hand tightly, but she restrained herself too, and with a slight bow she took it politely in hers and modestly turned her head when, as she crossed the ditch, the girl flashed her calf fleetingly.

And again they walked and talked, but their thoughts were filled with the momentary touch of their hands. She could still feel the dry warmth of the palm and the strong male fingers; He felt pleasure and shame, while he was conscious of the submissive softness of the tiny female hand, and saw the black outline of her foot and the little shoe that wrapped around him tenderly. He was overcome by a sudden desire to sing, to stretch out his hands to the sky, and to shout, "Run! I want to you!", that ancient formula of primitive love among the woods and the noisy waterfalls. And tears flowed down her throat from all these desires.

The long shadows vanished, and the dust on the road turned gray and cold, but they didn't notice and continued chatting. They had both read many good books, and the radiant images of men and women who had loved, suffered, and perished out of pure love stood before them. His memoirs resurrected fragments of almost forgotten verses, adorned with the melodious harmony and sweet sadness that love provides.

"Do you remember where this is from?" Nemovetsky asked, reciting: "... Once again she is with me, she, whom I love; of whom, having never spoken, I conceal all my sadness, my tenderness, my love..."

"No," replied Zinochka, and repeated thoughtfully, "All my sadness, my tenderness, my love..."

"All my love," Nemovetsky replied like an echo.

Other memories came back to them. They remembered those girls, pure as lilies, who, dressed in black, sat alone in the park, ruminating on their sorrow among the dead leaves, but happy in the midst of their sorrow. They also remembered the men who, abounding in will and pride, implored the love and delicate compassion of women. The images thus evoked were sad, but the love reflected in that sadness was radiant and pure. As vast as the world, as bright as the sun, it lifted up fabulous beauty before his eyes, and there was nothing so powerful or so beautiful on the face of the earth.

"Could you die for love?" Zinochka asked, as she looked at his childish hand.

"Yes, I might," replied Nemovetsky, convinced, and looked his companion in the eye. And you?

-Yes, me too. The girl thought thoughtfully. Dying for love is a joy.

Their eyes met. Clear, limpid eyes, full of goodness. His lips smiled.

Zinochka stopped.

"Wait a minute," he said. You've got a thread in your jacket.

The girl raised a hand to the young man's shoulder and carefully, with two fingers, grasped the thread.

-That's it! -Cried-. And, becoming serious, she asked, "Why are you so pale and thin?" You study too much...

"And you have blue eyes, with golden sparks," replied Nemovetsky, looking into the girl's eyes.

"And yours are black. No, chestnut trees. They seem to shine. There are in them...

Zinochka didn't finish the sentence. He turned his head, his cheeks flushed, his eyes took on a shy expression, while his lips smiled involuntarily. Without waiting for Nemovetsky, who was also smiling with secret pleasure. The girl started walking, but soon stopped.

"Look, the sun has set!" He exclaimed in sorrowful astonishment.

"Yes, it has been set," replied the young man with a new sadness.

The light had faded, the shadows had died, everything was pale, dying. At that point on the horizon where the sun had burned, dark masses of clouds were now silently accumulating, conquering blue space step by step. The clouds gathered, pushed each other, slowly transformed their monstrous profiles; They were advancing, as if driven against their will by some terrible, implacable force.

Zinochka's cheeks grew paler and her lips redder; His pupils widened imperceptibly, obscuring his eyes. Whispered:

-I'm scared. I am concerned about the silence that surrounds us. Have we gone astray?

Nemovetsky knitted her bushy eyebrows and looked around.

Now that the sun had disappeared and the approaching night breathed fresh air, everything seemed cold and inhospitable. The grey field stretched out on either side with its stunted grass, its hills and its hollows. There were many of these hollows, some deep, some small, and full of vegetation; the silent darkness of night had already crept into them; And because of the existence of signs of cultivation, the place seemed even more desolate.

Nemovetsky crushed the feeling of insecurity that was struggling to invade him and said:

"No, we haven't gone astray. I know the way. First to the left, then through that grove. Are you scared?

She smiled bravely and replied:

"No. Not now. But we need to get home early and have some tea.

They quickened their pace, only to shorten it again at once. They did not look by the wayside, but they could feel the indolent hostility of the tilled field, which surrounded them with a thousand tiny motionless eyes, and the sensation drew them nearer to each other and awakened in them memories of childhood. Bright memories, full of sun, green foliage, love and laughter. It was as if this had not been a life, but an immense and melodious song, and they themselves had been part of that song as sounds, as two faint notes: one clear and resonant like pure crystal, the other somewhat duller but more animated at the same time, like a small bell.

Signs of human life began to appear. Two women were sitting on the edge of a hollow. One of them was cross-legged and staring into the bottom of the hole. He lifted his head, touched with a handkerchief, from which tufts of matted hair escaped. She wore a very dirty blouse with flowers printed on it, as big as apples; Her laces were loose. He didn't look at those passing by. The other woman was very close, half reclining, with her head thrown back. He had a broad, coarse face, with the features of a peasant, and under his eyes the prominent cheekbones showed two reddish spots, resembling very recent scratches. She was even dirtier than the first woman, and she looked shamelessly at the two young men. When these had passed, the woman began to sing in a strong, masculine voice:

"For you alone, my beloved, I will burst like a flower..."

"Varka, did you hear?" The woman turned to her silent companion and, receiving no answer, burst into hoarse laughter.

Nemovetsky had known such women, who were filthy even when wearing luxurious dresses; He was used to them, and now they slipped from his retina and vanished, leaving no trace. But Zinochka, who had almost brushed against them in her modest dress, felt that something hostile invaded her soul. But in a few moments the impression had vanished, like the shadow of a cloud rushing across the flowery meadow; and when, advancing in the same direction, a barefoot man passed by, accompanied by another of these women, Zinochka saw them, but paid no attention to them.

And once more they walked and talked, and behind them moved reluctantly a dark cloud, casting a transparent shadow. The darkness gradually thickened. Now, the two young men were talking of those terrible thoughts and sensations that visit man during the night, when he cannot sleep and all is silence around him; when the darkness, immense and endowed with multiple eyes, is crushed against his face.

"Can you imagine the infinite?" Zinochka asked, putting a hand to his forehead and closing his eyes.

"The infinite?" "No," replied Nemovetsky, closing his eyes as well.

"Sometimes I see it. I first noticed it when I was very young. Imagine a large number of cards. One, another, another, endless letters, an infinite number of letters... It's terrible!

Zinochka trembled.

"But why letters?" Nemovetsky smiled, though he felt uncomfortable.

-I don't know. But I saw letters. One, another... endless.

The darkness was thickening. The cloud had already passed over their heads, and standing in front of them he could now see the faces of the two young men, growing paler and paler. The ragged figures of other women like the ones they had encountered appeared more frequently; as if the deep hollows, dug for some unknown purpose, were vomiting them to the surface. Now alone, now in groups of two or three, they appeared, and their voices echoed noisily and strangely desolate in the still air.

"Who are these women?" Where do they come from? Zinochka asked in a low, trembling voice.

Nemovetsky knew what kind of women these were. He was terrified that he had fallen into this wicked and dangerous neighbourhood, but he answered calmly:

-I don't know. It doesn't matter. Let's not talk about them. We'll be home soon. We just have to go through that grove and we will reach the city. Too bad we came out so late.

The girl found those words absurd. How could he say they had left late, if it was only four o'clock? He looked at his companion and smiled. But Nemovetsky's brows continued to furrow, and, to reassure and comfort him, Zinochka suggested:

"Let's go faster." I want to have some tea. And the grove is very close now.

"Yes, we're going to go faster.

When they entered the grove and the silent trees came together in an arc above their heads, the darkness grew more intense, but the atmosphere was also more peaceful and calm.

"Give me your hand," Nemovetsky proposed.

She shook his hand, with some hesitation, and the faint touch seemed to light up the darkness. Their hands didn't move or squeeze each other. Zinochka even pulled away from his partner a bit. But all his consciousness was focused on the perception of the tiny place in the body where the hands touched. And again came the desire to talk about the beauty and mysterious power of love, but to speak without violating silence, to speak, not through words but through looks. And they thought they ought to look, and they wished they would, but they dared not...

"And there are some people here!" Zinochka exclaimed cheerfully.

On the bald spot, where it was brighter, three men sat by an almost empty bottle, silent. They looked expectantly at the newcomers. One of them, clean-shaven like an actor, laughed loudly and whistled provocatively.

Nemovetsky's heart beat with a trepidation of horror, but, as if pushed from behind, he walked on in the direction of the trio, sitting by the roadside. There they were waiting, and three pairs of eyes were staring at the passers-by, motionless and threatening.

Desirous of winning the goodwill of these idle and ragged men, in whose silence he perceived a threat, and of gaining their sympathy through his own helplessness, Nemovetsky asked:

"Is this the road that leads to the city?"

They didn't answer. The clean-shaven whistled something mocking and indefinable, while the others remained silent and stared at the pair with malignant intensity. They were drunk, hungry for women and sensual fun. One of the men, with a reddish face, stood up like a bear and sighed heavily. His companions glanced at him, and then fixed their intense gaze on Zinochka again.

"I'm terribly afraid," whispered the girl.

Nemovetsky did not hear his words, but he could sense them by the weight of the arm resting on him. And, trying to appear calm that he did not feel, though convinced of the irrevocability of what was about to happen, he went on with studied firmness. Three pairs of piercing eyes drew nearer and nearer, twinkled, and were behind him.

"It's better to run," thought Nemovetsky. And he said to himself, "No, it is better not to run."

"It's a chick!" Are you afraid of him? said the third member of the trio, a bald man with a sparse red beard. And the girl is very fine. May God grant that we may give each of us one like her!

The three men burst out laughing.

-Hey! One minute! I want to talk to you, horseman! The taller man shouted in a strong voice, looking at his comrades.

The trio rose to their feet.

Nemovetsky walked on, without turning.

-Stop when asked! The redhead exclaimed. And if you don't want to, face the consequences!

"Is he deaf?" The taller man growled, and in two strides he approached the pair.

A massive hand fell on Nemovetsky's shoulder and swung him around. As he turned, he found very close to his face the round, bulging, terrible eyes of his assailant. They were so close that he seemed to see them through a magnifying glass, and he could clearly distinguish the small red veins in the eyeball and the yellowing of the eyelids. He dropped Zinochka's hand and, sinking his own into his pocket, murmured:

"Do you want money?" I can gladly give you the one I'm carrying.

The bulging eyes flashed. And when Nemovetsky looked away from them, the tall man gained momentum and slapped the young man's chin. Nemovetsky's head was thrown back, his teeth cracked, and his cap fell to the ground; Waving his arms, the young man collapsed heavily. Silently, without uttering a single cry, Zinochka turned and ran with all the speed he was capable of. The man with the clean-shaven face uttered an exclamation that rang strangely:

-A-a-ah!

And he started running after Zinochka.

Nemovetsky sprang to his feet, but had barely regained his vertical when another blow to the back of the head knocked him down again. There were two of his adversaries, and the young man was not accustomed to physical combat. Yet she struggled for a long time, scratched with her nails like a whitewashed woman, bit with her teeth, and sobbed in unconscious despair. When he was too weak to continue resisting, the two men lifted him off the ground and pushed him out of the way. The last thing he saw was a fragment of the red beard that almost touched his mouth, and beyond that, the darkness of the forest and the light-colored blouse of the fleeing girl. Zinochka ran silently and swiftly, as he had run a few days before when they were playing marro; And behind her, with short strides, gaining ground, ran the clean-shaven man. Then, Nemovetsky noticed the emptiness around him, his heart stopped beating as the young man experienced the sensation of sinking into a bottomless pit, and finally tripped over a stone, hit the ground, and lost consciousness.

The tall man and the red-haired man, having thrown Nemovetsky into a ditch, paused for a moment to listen to what was happening at the bottom of the ditch. But their faces and eyes were turned to one side, in the direction taken by Zinochka. From there the girl's shrill cry rose, only to die out almost immediately. The tall man muttered angrily:

"The very pig!"

Then, rising up like a bear, he ran.

-Me too! Me too! His red-haired comrade shouted, running after him. He was weak and panting; He had hurt his knee in the fight, and he was furious at the thought that he had been the first to see the girl and would be the last to have her. He stopped to rub his knee; then, putting a finger to his nose, he sneezed, and ran again, crying, "Me too!" Me too!

The dark cloud dissipated across the sky, fading into the still night. The short-cut figure of the red-haired man was soon swallowed up by the darkness, but for a time the uneven rhythm of his footsteps, the rustling of fallen leaves on the ground, and the plaintive cries could be heard:

-Me too! Brethren, so am I!

Nemovetsky's mouth was full of dirt. When he came to, the first sensation he experienced was the awareness of the pungent and pleasant smell of the earth. His head was heavy, as if it were full of lead; I could barely turn it back. His whole body ached, especially his shoulder, but he didn't have any broken bones. He sat up, and for a long time looked over him, neither thinking nor remembering. Directly above his head a bush bent its broad leaves, and between them the now clear sky was visible. The cloud had passed, not dropping a single drop of rain, and leaving the air dry and exhilarating. Very high, in the middle of the sky, appeared the sculpted moon, with transparent edges. He was living his last nights and his light was cold, discouraged, lonely. Small tufts of clouds glided swiftly across the heights, pushed by the wind; They did not obscure the moon, merely caressing it. The solitude of the moon, the timidity of the fugitive clouds, the barely perceptible breath of the wind below, made one feel the mysterious depth of the night dominating over the earth.

Nemovetsky suddenly remembered everything that had happened, and could not believe that it had happened. It was all so terrible that it didn't seem true. Could the truth be that horrible? He, too, sitting on the ground in the middle of the night and looking at the moon and the patches of receding clouds, felt strange to himself, so much so that he thought he was living through a vulgar but terrible nightmare. These women, of whom he had known so many, had also become a part of the dreadful and perverse dream.

"It can't be! He exclaimed, shaking his head weakly. It can't be!"

He stretched out an arm and began to reach for his cap. When he couldn't find her, everything became clear to him; And he realized that what had happened had not been a dream, but the horrible truth. Possessed with terror, he clung furiously to the walls of the ditch trying to get out of it, only to find himself again and again with his hands full of dirt, until finally he managed to cling to a bush and climb to the surface.

Once there, he ran without choosing a direction. For a long time he kept running, circling among the trees. The branches scratched his face, and again it all began to look like a dream. Nemovetsky experienced the sensation that something like this had happened to him before: darkness, invisible branches of the trees, as he ran with his eyes closed, thinking it was all a dream. Nemovetsky stopped, and then sat down in an awkward posture on the ground, without any elevation. And again he thought of his cap, and murmured:

"This is: I have to kill myself. Yes, I have to kill myself, even if this is a dream."

He sprang to his feet, but remembered something and started walking slowly, trying to locate in his confused brain the place where they had been attacked. It was almost pitch black in the forest, but now and then a moonbeam filtered through the branches of the trees, deceiving him; It lit up the white trunks, and the forest seemed to be filled with motionless and mysterious silent people. All this, too, seemed like a fragment of the past, and it seemed like a dream.

"Zinaida Nikolaevna!" called Nemovetsky, uttering the first word aloud and the second in a low voice, as if the loss of her voice had also given up all hope of an answer. No one answered.

Then Nemovetsky found his way, and recognized it immediately. He arrived at the calvery. And when he got there, he realized that everything had really happened. In his terror, he ran, crying out:

"Zinaida Nikolaevna! Soy yo! No!"

No one answered his call. Taking the direction in which he thought the city was, he shouted with all the force that remained in his lungs:

«¡S o c o r r o o o!»

• Again he ran, whispering something as he brushed the bushes, until a white spot appeared before his eyes, like a spot of frozen light. It was Zinochka's prostrate body.

"Oh! My god! What is this?" said Nemovetsky, his eyes dry, but his voice sobbing. He dropped to his knees and came into contact with the girl lying there.

His hand fell on the naked body, which was soft to the touch, and firm, and cold, but not dead. Trembling, Nemovetsky ran his hand over her.

"My dear, darling, it's me," she whispered, searching for the girl's face in the darkness.

Then he stretched out a hand in another direction, and again came into contact with the naked body, and wherever he rested his hand touched the woman's body, so soft, so firm, seeming to acquire warmth at the touch of his hand. Nemovetsky suddenly drew her hand away, and immediately rested it again on that body, which she could not associate with Zinochka. Everything that had happened here, everything that those men had done with this mute woman's body, appeared to Nemovetsky in all its frightful reality, and she found a strange and eloquent answer in her own body. With his eyes fixed on the white spot, he raised his eyebrows like a man engaged in the task of thinking.

"Oh! My god! What is this?" he repeated, but the sound came unreal, deliberate.

Nemovetsky laid her hand on Zinochka's heart: it was beating faintly but steadily, and when the young man leaned over the woman's face he caught the faint breath as well. The girl seemed to be in a peaceful sleep. He called to her in a low voice:

"Zinochka! It's me!"

But he knew immediately that he wouldn't want to see her awake until a long time had passed. Nemovetsky held her breath, glanced furtively around, and then stroked the girl's cheek; First he kissed her closed eyes, then her lips... Fearing that he would wake up, he leaned back and remained in an icy attitude. But the body was motionless and mute, and in its helplessness and easy access there was something pitiful and exasperating. With infinite tenderness Nemovetsky tried to cover the girl with the pieces of her dress, and the double consciousness of the cloth and the naked body was as sharp as a knife and as incomprehensible as madness. Here, wild beasts had feasted: Nemovetsky caught the fiery passion in the air and dilated her nostrils.

"It's me! It's me!" he repeated like a madman, not understanding his surroundings and still possessed by the memory of the white selvedge of the woman's skirt, the black silhouette of the foot, and the footwear that so tenderly contained it. As he listened to Zinochka breathe, his eyes fixed on his face, he waved a hand. He stopped to listen, and waved his hand again.

"What am I doing?" he cried aloud in despair, and leaned back, horrified at himself.

For an instant, Zinochka's face flashed in front of him and vanished. He tried to comprehend that this body was Zinochka, with whom he had been walking and talking about the infinite, but he could not comprehend. He tried to feel the horror of what had happened, but the horror was too intense to grasp.

"Zinaida Nikolaevna! He cried imploringly. What does this mean? Zinaida Nikolaevna!"

But the tormented body remained mute, and, continuing his mad monologue, Nemovetsky dropped to his knees. He pleaded, threatened, said he would commit suicide, and grabbed the prostrate body, pressing it against his...

The body made no resistance, obedient meekly to his movements, and the whole thing was so terrible, incomprehensible, and savage that Nemovetsky sprang to his feet again and cried out sharply:

"Help!"

But the sound was fake, as if it were deliberate.

And once more she dropped upon the passive body, with kisses and tears, feeling the presence of an abyss, a dark, terrible, absorbing abyss. There was no Nemovetsky there; Nemovetsky had been left behind, somewhere, and the being who had replaced him was now shaking the warm, submissive body, and was saying with the cunning smile of a madman:

"Answer me! Or don't you want to answer me? I love you! I love you!"

With the same sly smile he brought his wide eyes to Zinochka's face and whispered:

"I love you! You don't want to talk, but you're smiling, I notice. I love you! I love you! I love you!"

He pressed Zinochka's body tighter against his, and his passivity aroused a savage passion. Wringing her hands, Nemovetsky whispered again, her voice hoarse:

"I love you! We won't tell anyone, and no one will know. I'll marry you tomorrow, whenever you want. I love you! I'll kiss you, and you'll answer me, yes? Zinochka..."

He pressed his lips to hers, and in the anguish of that kiss his reason was utterly nullified. It seemed to him that Zinochka's lips quivered. For an instant, horror cleared his mind, opening a black abyss before him.

And the black abyss engulfed him.

 

The end

 

DAVID AND BETSY Dirma Pardo De Carugati

 

 

"… But what David had done was displeasing in the sight of the Lord."

2 Samuel, 11, 27

 

The election campaign was in full swing. The great machinery was in motion: a pompous display of conventions, tours of different states, press conferences, gargantuan banquets and a multimillion-dollar squandering of money, to convince marginalized minorities that they were being fought.

In reality, capturing sympathy, gaining followers and winning over the electorate is much more feasible when the party is already in power. And the president and candidate for re-election, in truth, had more than enough merits of his own and no lack of personal appeal. From his earliest days, when he was a young senator starting out in public life, he had gained political and social prestige. Above all, according to the polls, 80% of women's favours were for David Simpson.

But a trivial and innocent motive, if an illustrated magazine can be called innocent, would change the fortunes of the president and twist the history of the country.

It all started on the night of the television debate between the candidates of the two major parties.

The Majestic Hotel was the center of operations. For a month a whole army of collaborators had been in the city preparing contacts, interviews and negotiations, not always clear-cut, in which influences were moved and perks were promised.

The candidate had arrived that afternoon, handing out smiles, receiving flowers, shaking hands, and waving with raised arms to a crowd, not entirely spontaneous, of course.

David Simpson, however, was somewhat tense; Opponents harshly criticized his domestic policy and foreign alliances. The New Post had launched a smear campaign, rummaging through old contracts and old tenders, threatening to uncover a monopoly of structures quite compromising for the government.

In his suite, David was trying to relax by exchanging opinions with his advisors, when Robert Joabson opened his briefcase. Among the white papers stood a colorful copy of Joy Boy, which the president picked up and began to leaf through, as if absentmindedly. Suddenly, his expression changed and he let out a whistle of admiration. Everyone fell silent. They were well aware of David's fondness for beautiful women.

Robert Joabson walked over and saw the photograph that enraptured the president.

"The Bath of Venus," read the caption under a truly artistic snapshot: a woman emerged from the water with all the splendor of her natural beauty. Her velvet-like youthful skin, wet like dew-moistened fruit, had a mesmerizing glow. From her blond hair, totally soaked, iridescent drops fell and slid down her morbid breasts.

"I'm thirsty," David said, without looking up.

Solicitously, Stewart James handed him a glass of whiskey and with a knowing wink murmured:

It's Betsy Blair, an aspiring actress. She made a name for herself with a shampoo ad and then tried a dramatic role, without any success, in Norman Mailer's "The Naked and the Dead."

"I want to meet her," David said simply, inwardly congratulating himself on having such knowledgeable advisers.

 

***

 

The TV showdown was a battle won, according to party members. While the results of the poll were awaited, the triumph was already being celebrated in the convention halls of the Majestic. Telegrams and flowers arrived; Several phones rang incessantly and more and more people arrived, greeting each other with effusive hugs and patting each other on the back.

On an aside, as privately as you can be in the middle of a crowd, David and Betsy Blair were talking. She was intimately frightened, but radiated happiness. A reverent fear inhibited her as she spoke to the man before her, but she realized what the situation was.

David, on the other hand, looked at her rapturously, trying to recognize that beautiful body he had seen in the magazine, under the insinuating sweater suit she was wearing now, which veiled but did not hide its shapes.

By the time the results confirmed the triumph of the debate, Robert Joabson had already been ordered not to disturb the President, who had retired to his chambers.

 

***

 

In the New Post newsroom, Uri Stone was angrily typing on the typewriter. He couldn't forget that Betsy, his wife, had left him. It hurt him that she had been so light, at the same time he was angry at the possibility that she had only been a victim of circumstance. Again and again the words of the scribbled obituary she left him on the night of her departure tapped on his temples: "I have been invited to the President's party. An honor I cannot refuse. Kisses. I love you, Betsy." He remembered finding the paper just before sunrise when he returned to the apartment after handing in his chronicles. He immediately understood everything, but a faint hope kept him expectant. When he became convinced that it was useless, that she would not come, he took the essentials and decided not to return to what had been the marital home until then. Once again he read Betsy's message before leaving. He squeezed it and flushed it down the toilet. "That's where you need to

to be," he said angrily, making the water run.

Now, he regretted that he had destroyed that document. Was it a document or a relic? His conflicting feelings did not allow him to think clearly. A desire for revenge stirred within him, and he felt pity for Betsy. It would have been enough for him if she had called him and apologized. But now, his wounded pride hurt as much as his broken heart.

Uri Stone made a decision at that moment: he would ask Lloyd Andersen, the editor-in-chief, to bring him into the team working on the government's investigation.

 

***

 

By then, Betsy's dazzle had turned into total infatuation. I still couldn't believe it; It was she, indeed, herself who found herself in the bedroom of the most admired man in the country, with whom she would surely be the longest-serving ruler of one of the world's greatest powers. Who would believe it if I told it? And could I tell you about it? David was married and so was she. "Oh my God! URI! What would Uri say?"

But Uri at that moment was so insignificant and distant that he avoided incipient remorse and eluded the trouble of concocting an explanation. To appease his conscience, he thought that later he would ask David to help him, too, in his career.

 

II

On that cold January morning, David Simpson, along with his elegant wife, was sworn in as president.

Betsy Blair, wrapped up in her satin sheets, followed the events on television. Her state of risky pregnancy had made this rest necessary. Moreover, David's brothers, his allies in this occult adventure, had advised him to be cautious in his public appearances. This, as a result of the gossip of the tabloid press. The covert defamation was shattering the president's image, and that could be dangerous. It was necessary to win back the people, the common man, who is, after all, the one who demands from his leaders the virtues that he himself is not capable of having.

To debunk "infamous rumors" and strengthen the myth of the typical family, Uri Stone, the new member of the presidential press team, had prepared free of charge brochures, with biographies, anecdotes and profuse graphic material. The photographs showed the President and First Lady, smiling, sharing games with their children and attending, hand in hand, religious services.

But what was the truth? David wanted and kept Betsy. Did he love her? While the passion of the early days had faded, he loved her tenderly. He had promised to marry her, the same day that Uri divorced Betsy on the grounds of "character incompatibility."

But politicians' promises are not always kept. A slave to his duties, David could not get a divorce at this time. The wedding was always an undated issue, which had been postponed for one reason or another.

David was beset by trouble. First there was the scandal of the discovery of espionage within the party itself. A piece of recorded material, very compromising to David, had inexplicably found its way into the hands of the editors of the New Post.

Then, there was the tragic crash of the presidential helicopter, in which Uri Stone lost his life while on a special mission.

And to top it all off, the death of David and Betsy's little boy.

The president was going through a serious crisis. Lately he had become easily impatient, had become very susceptible, and had grown old.

Betsy was afraid of losing him; He knew that deep down, David thought that this relationship was the cause of his moral ruin and turned everything that was happening into divine punishment. That's what they both thought, even if they didn't admit it, when their first child died.

When the second son was born, beautiful and healthy, David resumed his old promises. He already had the inner certainty that he would not complete his second term.

He enrolled the boy in a small town with his own surname, in an attempt to commit him to a political destiny, the same one he had received from his elders.

But Betsy was tired. She, too, was losing enthusiasm for her surroundings. She felt weary of this useless pageantry, of her empty life and her postponed future. He began to fall into depressive states that not even alcohol, his frequent consolation of late, could mitigate.

One night, while watching a press conference by the President on television, he put more pills than usual in his last drink. He drank it in one gulp, while David Simpson's face, from the screen, tried to demonstrate the optimism of before.

Betsy turned off the image, wanted to write a letter, but millions of ants began to climb up her fingers.

An irresistible force drew her to the next room. There, he turned on the taps of the large marble bathtub. She freed herself from her silk dressing gown and let it fall, as if she were leaving her own skin with it, and went to meet the water. He leaned back in the bowl, waiting for the purifying caress.

A small cataract poured from the mouth of a burnished bronze serpent. At first, the warm water caressed the contours of her beautiful body, then began to cover it.

Betsy was happy. Confused thoughts fluttered in his mind; the image of Uri mingled in his visions. Everything seemed beautiful to him; A hitherto unexperienced placidity began to fill her. She felt young, almost a child. And he understood that life was wonderful.

With great effort he climbed out of the bathtub. He wanted to keep his eyes open, but his eyelids looked like lead.

Walking with difficulty, he reached the telephone next to the bed. "My God," he murmured, "I have to make that call!"

But Betsy had already crossed the point of return.

The receiver fell to the ground.

 

The end