Short: An International Anthology of Five Centuries of Short-Short Stories, Prose Poems, Brief Essays, and Other Short Prose Forms by Short An International Anthology

Author:Short, An International Anthology ... [Short, An International Anthology ...]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Persea
Published: 2014-03-26T00:00:00+00:00

MOACYR SCLIAR (Brazil, 1937–2011)

Agenda of Executive Jorge T. Flacks for Judgment Day

SEVEN A.M.

Get up (earlier, today). Don’t think. Don’t lie motionless in an attempt to recapture fleeting images; let dreams trickle away, jump out of bed.

From the terrace: watch the Sunrise—with dry eyes, without thinking of the millions, billions of years throughout which this poignant light, and so on and so forth. Nothing of the kind. A bath, soon afterward.

SEVEN-THIRTY A.M.

Breakfast: orange juice, toast, eggs. Eat with appetite, chew vigorously and swiftly; don’t ruminate, don’t mix food with bitter thoughts. Don’t! Coffee. Very strong, with sugar today, just today, never again (from now on, avoid expressions such as “never again”). Finish off the meal with a glass of ice-cold water, sipping it slowly. Pay special attention to the ice cubes tinkling against the glass. Joyful sound.

EIGHT A.M.

Wake up the wife. Make love. And why not? She’s been the companion of so many years. Wife, mother. Make love, yes, a quick act of love, but with the utmost tenderness. Let her go back to sleep afterward. Let her roam through the country of dreams as much as she wants; let her say farewell to her monsters, to her demons, to her fairies, to her princesses, to her godparents.

EIGHT-THIRTY A.M.

Gymnastics. Brisk, fierce movements. Afterward, feel the arms tingling, the head throbbing, splitting, almost: life.

NINE A.M.

Take the car out of the garage. Drive downtown. Take advantage of the time spent driving to do some thinking. Try to clarify certain doubts once and for all; maybe stop off at the rabbi’s place. Maybe talk to a priest as well. Maybe bring priest and rabbi together?

TEN A.M.

At the office. Render decisions on the latest documents. Tidy up the desk. Clean out the drawers, throw away gewgaws. Set pen to paper. Write a letter, a poem, anything. Write.

TWELVE-THIRTY P.M.

Luncheon. Friends. Salad, cold cuts. Wine. Gab away, talk drivel. Laugh. Observe the faces. Memorize the details of the faces. Hug the friends. Hug them deeply touched. But tearless. No tears at all.

THREE-THIRTY P.M.

Phone Dr. Francisco. Ask if there’s anything that can be done (quite unlikely); but say no to tranquilizers.

SIX P.M.

Return home. Get the family together, including the baby of the family. Mention they’ll be taken for a drive, and get the station wagon out of the garage. Head for the outskirts of the city. Find a spot on an elevation with a panoramic view. Park. Have everybody get out of the car. In a low, quiet voice, explain what is about to happen: the earth, which will open up (explain: as if it were parched), the bones, which will appear—the bones only, white, clean—bones that will then be covered with flesh, with hair, with eyes, with finger and toenails: men, women, laughing, crying.

Conclude with: It’s about to begin, children. It’s about to begin. Up to now, everything has been a lark.

Translated from the Portuguese by Eloah F. Giacomelli

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