The Boys by Toni Sala

Author:Toni Sala
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781931883504
Publisher: Two Lines Press
Published: 2015-10-22T04:00:00+00:00

He locked up the truck in the lumber warehouse, leaving the shotgun inside. His apartment was the same as ever, his father shut in his room and the hypocritical voices of the television escaping from beneath the door. He hadn’t had any lunch, and he defrosted a baguette, filled it with what he could find, and went to his room to eat. He was tired from the night before. He stretched out on the bed and fell asleep.

He woke up in the middle of the night, got up without switching on the light, sat at his desk, and turned on the computer. The room looked like the moon. The chats, the conversations, continued as always. They would continue until the end of the world. He was there for a while, following the chatter of stupid jokes and demands for attention. One day he would invent a program that gave all those messages meaning, came up with their statistical average, interpreted them. Who were all those people? Who was typing? Robots? It was endless. Like the wind always going up and down the staircases of the empty buildings in Platja d’Aro, like the cylinder of air inside the piles of tires he’d made in the forest, in which a person could stand. Miqui occasionally pulled back the curtains to let light in. But even when he pulled back the curtains, the chat continued. There was always someone on duty. People who never slept. When Miqui dies, the chat will continue. Because there is still another curtain, and behind that other curtain there is someone else, a glowing body sitting alone in front of a keyboard, in a room, in an apartment way up high in one of those empty buildings in the morning, glowing like the screen, and giving off light, a scant light that can’t be seen during the day, but you might notice among the audience at the movies or in a theater, or at night if you found it far from the streetlights, walking past you in a dark alley, or in a cave, or in a forest, or if it sat among the passengers on a plane flying at night that had turned off its lights for a moment as it went through some turbulence, when everything was dark in the middle of the night and through the windows you only saw the intermittent beat of the navigation lights on the wings, and beneath the plane the large cushion of clouds illuminated by the moon and, inside the plane, among the passengers lurching as if they were traveling by horse and buggy, that body—neither man nor woman—with its faintly glowing aura, over the laptop, typing. When a train went through a tunnel and for whatever reason the lights didn’t work, then you could make it out, always typing, with the screen lit up like a rectangular extension of its skin, a skin through which its inner light passed—the light didn’t come from its skeleton or from some

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