Ischia by Gisela Heffes

Author:Gisela Heffes
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Deep Vellum

VI

I’D DIE. AND IT CERTAINLY WOULDN’T BE BAD AT ALL. Especially the first time. Dying would be like falling on a giant mirror where your voice and image keep multiplying until you’re exhausted. Spinning around in the air and seeing, in the end, all the people I’d want to see, all the objects, all the landscapes, all the mornings and all the afternoons that flowed through all the countries of the world, from each of all possible angles, at whatever time and in whatever language I felt like. It would be absolute ubiquity, the dream of the aleph, yes, all of that and even much more. I’d count on my fingers the things I saw, I felt, I longed for, I lost, I gave, I sacrificed at my own cost and at the cost of others. I’d remember the streets of my city, the cigarettes I’d smoked in different Buenos Aires neighborhoods, the bars where I would stop to have a beer or a coffee, to look at the confused noise of the people and the city buses through the window. The times I’d let myself be dragged through a multitude of images that resonated in my head, until I hit the train tracks, until I sat on one of those dilapidated benches and stayed there absorbed in myself for more than two, three hours. The guard at the station who, when he recognized me, would call me “the autistic kid.” Hi autistic kid, bye autistic kid. But I wouldn’t look at him; I wouldn’t pay him any mind. I would not be able to answer him no matter how many times I heard him come by or heard him drag his heavy legs; perceiving the heat from his body stopping next to mine, waiting. Although soon an infinite anguish would assault me, and I’d keep my eyes nailed to some street tile, the dry grass between the dormant railroad tracks, the ripped-up walls, and the abrupt anxiety of finding out why I exist. Why the fuck do I exist? Why the fuck, goddammit? Why the fucking goddamn son of a bitch? I’d look at the poor, hunched-over old man with his back to me. I’d feel so sorry, an enormous sadness. I’d wonder about things, but after a while, and with great effort, I’d try not to let myself be trapped by those things, by those questions that hounded me, day and night, on those Sunday afternoons as horrible as madness itself. I’d die, and when I did, all the worries about the future, work, relatives, and ecology would end. Everything, from that moment on, nothing, would matter at all. I’d see my tiny funeral from the very center of the vastness, sitting on a floating sphere that glowed red. I’d laugh at my brothers, and I’d wave at them with my arms. They’d all be dressed in black, but each one different, and quite elegant for sure, as if they were at a party. I’d look at them with pride, and I’d notice how handsome Herman and Marcos had become with time.

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