The Lives of Things Read online

  Observe, ladies and gentlemen, this longitudinal bridge, as it were, made from fibres: it is called the fornix and constitutes the upper part of the optic thalamus. Behind can be seen two transversal commissures which obviously are not to be confused with those of the lips. Now let us examine the other side. Look here. What you see standing out are the quadrigeminal tubercles or optic lobes (and since this is not a Zoology lesson, the accent on lobes is heavily stressed on the o). This broad section is the anterior brain, and here we have the famous convolutions. Right underneath, as everyone knows, is the cerebellum which contains what is known as the arbor vitae, and in case anyone mistakes this for a Botany lesson, we should explain that this is due to the plicae of nervous tissue in a certain number of lamellae, which in their turn produce secondary folds. We mentioned the spinal cord earlier. Take a good look at this. It is not a bridge yet is known as the bridge of Varolio, which sounds more like the name of an Italian town, and I defy you to disagree. Behind is the elongated medulla. I have almost finished this description, so bear with me. Much more could be explained and in greater detail, but only if we were carrying out an autopsy. Therefore let us simply point out the pituitary gland, a glandular and nervous organ at the base of the thalamus or third ventricle. And to conclude, let me point out the optic nerve, a subject of the greatest importance, and now no one can claim not to have witnessed what happened in this place.

  And now to the crucial question: what purpose does the brain, or brains as they are commonly known, serve? They serve for everything because they allow us to think. But we must be careful not to be deceived by the common misconception that everything inside the skull is related to thought and the senses. An unforgivable error, ladies and gentlemen. The greater part of this mass inside the cranium has nothing to do with thought and does not influence it in any way. Only the thinnest layer of nervous tissue, known as the cortex, about three millimetres thick, and covering the anterior part of the brain, constitutes the seat of consciousness. Please note the disconcerting similarity between what we define as the microcosm and what we shall refer to as the macrocosm, between the three millimetres of cortex which allow us to think and the few kilometres of atmosphere which permit us to breathe, each and every one of them insignificant in their turn, not just when compared with the size of the galaxy, but even the simple diameter of the earth. Let us walk in awe, dear brethren, and pray to the Lord.

  The body is still here, and will remain here for as long as we wish. Here, where the hair looks dishevelled, is the spot where his head struck the ground. To all appearances, it is nothing serious. The faintest bruise, as if scratched by an impatient fingernail and virtually covered by a root of hair so that one would never suspect death might enter here. In fact, it is already inside. What is this? Are we to take pity on our vanquished enemy? Is death an excuse, a pardon, a sponge, a lye for washing away crimes? The old man has now opened his eyes but fails to recognise us, for he does not know us. His chin trembles, he tries to speak, is disturbed by our presence here, and believes we are responsible for this outrage. He says nothing. Saliva trickles from his gaping mouth down on to his chin. What would Sister Lucia do in this case, what would she do if she were here on her knees, enshrouded in the triple odour of mustiness, petticoats and incense? Would she reverently wipe away the saliva or, with even greater reverence, prostrate herself, using her tongue to gather that holy secretion, that relic, to be preserved in an ampoule? Neither the annals of the church nor, as we know, the history books will say, and not even domesticated Eve will notice, afflicted soul, the outrage the old man is committing by slobbering over himself.

  Steps can already be heard in the passage-way, but there is still time. The bruise has turned darker and the hair covering it appears to be bristling. A gentle combing would suffice to tidy up this patch. But to no avail. On another surface, that of the cortex, the blood gathers as it pours from the vessels the blow divided into sections at the precise spot where the fall occurred. A case of haematoma. It is there that Anobium is to be found at this moment, ready for the second shift. Buck Jones has cleaned his revolver and is reloading the barrel with fresh bullets. He is already on his way to look for the old man. That scratching of nails, that hysterical wailing, the laughter of hyenas, with which we are all familiar. Let us go to the window. What do you think of this month of September? We have not had such weather in a long time.

  Embargo

  He awoke with the distinct feeling of having been interrupted in the middle of a dream and saw before him the grey and frosty window-pane, the square, livid eye of dawn upon him, cut in the shape of a cross and dripping with condensation. He thought his wife must have forgotten to draw the curtains before going to bed, and felt irritated: unless he could get back to sleep, his day would be ruined. But he had no intention of getting up to draw the curtains: he preferred to cover his face with the sheet and turn to his wife, who was asleep, to take refuge in her warmth and in the perfume of her dishevelled hair. He waited a few more minutes, ill at ease, fearful at the morning insomnia. But then he consoled himself with the thought that bed was such a warm cocoon and with the labyrinthine presence of the body pressed against his and, almost slipping into a slow spiral of erotic images, he went back to sleep. The grey eye of the window-pane gradually turned blue, staring all the while at the two heads resting on the pillow like the forgotten remains of a removal to some other house or some other world. When the alarm went off two hours later, daylight filled the room.

  He told his wife not to get up, to stay in bed a little longer, while he slipped out into the chilly atmosphere with that unmistakable sense of dampness on the walls, the door-knobs, the bath-towels. He smoked his first cigarette as he shaved and the second with his coffee which had cooled in the meantime. He coughed, as he did every morning. Then, groping for his clothes, he dressed without switching on the light. He was anxious not to awaken his wife. The refreshing fragrance of eau de Cologne enlivened the shadows, causing his wife to sigh with pleasure when her husband leaned over the bed to kiss her closed eyes. And he whispered that he would not be coming home for lunch.

  He closed the door and quickly went downstairs. The building seemed quieter than usual. Perhaps because of the mist, he thought. For he had noticed that the mist was like a bell-jar, muffling sounds and transforming them, breaking them up, doing to them what it did to images. It had to be the mist. On the last flight of stairs he could already see the street and confirm whether he had been right. After all, the light was still grey, but as harsh and bright as crystal. On the edge of the pavement lay an enormous dead rat. And standing there at the door, he was lighting his third cigarette when a boy with a cap pulled over his head went past and spat on the animal, as he himself had been taught and had always seen others do.

  His car was five blocks down the road. What a stroke of luck to have found a parking space. He clung to the superstition that the further away he parked the car at night, the greater the risk of having it stolen. Without ever having actually said so, he was convinced that he would never see his car again if he were to leave it in some remote part of the city. Having it there nearby gave him greater reassurance. The car appeared to be covered with tiny drops of moisture, the windows covered in condensation. Were it not quite so cold, you would have thought the car was perspiring like a human body. He examined the tyres as usual, checked in passing that the aerial was not broken and opened the door. Inside the car, the air was freezing cold. With its windows clouded, the car resembled a transparent cavern submerged by a deluge of water. He decided it would have been better to have parked on a slope in order to drive off more easily. He switched on the ignition and at the same instant the engine rumbled with a deep, impatient panting. He smiled, pleasantly surprised. The day was getting off to a good start.

  The car sped up the street, scraping the asphalt like an animal with its hooves, pounding the rubbish scattered around. The speedometer suddenly leapt to nin
ety, a suicidal speed in such a narrow street with cars parked on both sides. What was happening? Alarmed, he took his foot off the accelerator. For a moment he thought they must have given him a much more powerful engine. He put his foot down cautiously on the accelerator and brought the car under control. Nothing serious. Sometimes you can misjudge the pressure of your foot on the pedal. The heel of your shoe only has to come down in the wrong place to alter the movement and pressure. So easily done.

  Distracted by this incident, he still had not checked the petrol gauge. Could someone have stolen his petrol during the night as had happened before? No. The pointer indicated that the tank was exactly half-full. He stopped at a red light, feeling the car vibrate and tense up as he held the wheel. Strange. He had never noticed this animal-like shudder running in waves through the bodywork and churning his insides. When the light turned green, the car appeared to snake, to become elongated like fluid, in order to overtake the cars in front. Strange. But then he had always considered himself a better than average driver. A question of having the right temperament, these quick reflexes which were probably exceptional. The tank half-full. If he should come across a petrol station that was open, he would fill up the tank. Considering the number of rounds he would have to make today before going to the office, better to play safe and have petrol in reserve. This absurd embargo. The panic, the hours of waiting, the endless queues of cars. Industry would almost certainly suffer the consequences. The tank half-full. Other motorists driving around with even less petrol, but if only you could prove it. The car took a sharp bend before climbing up a steep slope without the slightest effort. Nearby was a petrol-pump few people knew existed and he might be lucky. Like a setter following the scent the car dodged in and out of the traffic, turned two corners and took its place in the queue. What a good idea.

  He looked at his watch. There must have been about twenty cars in front of him. Could be worse. But he decided it might be wiser to go to the office first and leave his rounds until the afternoon, when he would have a full tank of petrol and nothing more to worry about. He lowered the window and hailed a passing newsvendor. The weather had turned much colder. But there, inside the car, with the newspaper spread over the wheel, smoking while he waited, he felt a pleasant warmth as if he were back between the sheets. He stretched his back muscles with the voluptuous contortions of a cat at the thought of his wife still snuggled up in bed at that hour, and reclined more comfortably in his seat. The newspaper had nothing good to report. The embargo continued. A cold, gloomy Christmas, read one of the headlines. But he still had half a tank of petrol and it would not be long before it was full. The car in front edged forward a little. Good.

  After an hour and a half he found himself at the head of the queue, and three minutes later he was driving off. A little worried because the pump-attendant had told him, without any particular expression in his voice after repeating the information so often, that there would be no more petrol for a fortnight. On the seat beside him, the newspaper announced severe restrictions. Never mind, at least his tank was full. What should he do? Go straight to the office or first call at a client’s house and see if he could pick up an order. He opted for the client. It was preferable to justify his lateness with a business call rather than say that he had spent an hour and a half queuing for petrol when he still had the tank half-full. The car was doing fine. He had never felt happier driving it. He switched on the radio and caught the news. Things were going from bad to worse. These Arabs. This ridiculous embargo. Suddenly the car gave a lurch and veered towards the road to the right before coming to a halt in a queue of cars smaller than the first one. What had gone wrong? He had a full tank, well, practically full, damn it. He manipulated the gear lever and tried to reverse, but the gear-box refused to obey him. He tried forcing it, but the gears seemed to be blocked. How ludicrous. That something should go wrong now. The car in front advanced. Expecting the worst, he cautiously went into first gear. No problem. He sighed with relief. But how would the reverse gear react when he had to use it again?

  About thirty minutes later he was putting a half-litre of petrol in the tank and feeling foolish beneath the disdainful look of the pump-attendant. He gave him an absurdly big tip and drove off with a screeching of tyres and acceleration. How preposterous. Now for his client otherwise the morning would be lost. The car was running better than ever. It responded to his movements as if it were a mechanical extension of his own body. But this business about reversing bothered him. And now he really did have cause for concern. An enormous lorry had broken down and was blocking the entire street. There had not been enough time to get round it and now he was stuck. Once again he anxiously manipulated the lever and the car went into reverse gear with a gentle sound of suction. He could not recall the gear-box ever having reacted in this way before. He turned the steering wheel to the left, accelerated, and with one spurt, the car mounted the pavement, went right up against the lorry, and came out on the other side, as free and agile as an animal on the loose. The damned car had nine lives. Perhaps because of all the upheaval caused by the embargo, with everyone in a panic and services disrupted, the pumps had been filled with a much higher grade of petrol. That would be fun.

  He looked at his watch. Was it worth calling on his client? With luck, he would get there before they closed. If the traffic was not too heavy he would have enough time. But the traffic was heavy. Christmas time, and notwithstanding the shortage of petrol, everyone out on the roads, making life difficult for those who had to get to work. And on coming to a crossroads that was clear, he turned off and decided not to visit his client after all. Better to make some excuse in the office and postpone the call until the afternoon. With so much hesitation, he had made quite a detour from the centre. All that petrol consumed for nothing. But then the tank was full. As he drove down a street he saw more cars queuing in the square below. He smiled with satisfaction and accelerated, determined to sound his hooter as he passed those paralysed motorists who were waiting. But twenty metres further on his car veered to the left by itself and came to a halt at the end of the queue with a gentle sigh. What was happening? He had not intended to queue for petrol. Why had the car stopped when the tank was full? He studied the various dials, checked the steering wheel as if unfamiliar with his own car and, with one further gesture, he pulled the rear-view mirror towards him and looked at his reflection. He could see that he was worried and with good reason. Once again in the rear-view mirror he could see a car coming down the road and clearly heading for the queue. Worried about being trapped there, when his tank was full, he quickly manoeuvred the lever to go backwards. The car resisted and the lever slipped from his grasp. He instantly found himself jammed between his two neighbours. Damn it. What could be wrong with the car? He must take it to the garage. A reverse gear that works one minute but not the next is a real hazard.

  More than twenty minutes passed before he reached the pump. He saw the attendant approach and his voice faltered as he asked him to check the tank. At the same time he tried to get out of this embarrassing situation, quickly putting the car into first gear and trying to drive off. To no avail. The pump-attendant looked at him suspiciously, opened the tank and, after a few seconds, came and charged him for a litre, muttering to himself as he pocketed the money. Next moment the car went into first gear without any effort and advanced, moving smoothly with a low purr. There had to be something not quite right with the car, the gear changes, the engine, something somewhere, damn it. Or could he be losing his touch as a driver? Or even be ill? He had slept so well, had no more worries than usual. Better to forget his clients for the moment, not think about them for the rest of the day and remain in the office. He felt restless. The bodywork of the car was shaking all over, not on the surface but inside the steel parts, and the engine was running with that inaudible sound of lungs breathing in and out, in and out. To his dismay he began to realise that he was mentally tracing out an itinerary that would take him far away fro
m other petrol-pumps, and this was enough to make him apprehensive and fear for his sanity. He started going round in circles, lengthening and shortening the journey, until he arrived in front of his office. He found a parking space and sighed with relief. After switching off the engine, he removed the key and opened the door. But he could not get out.

  He thought he had caught the hem of his raincoat, that his leg had got stuck round the column of the steering wheel, and he tried another movement. He even checked the safety belt to see whether he had put it on without noticing. No. The belt was hanging at his side, a soft, black intestine. How absurd, he thought. I must be ill. If I cannot get out, it’s because I am ill. He could move his arms and legs without any difficulty and bend his trunk with each manoeuvre, look back, lean slightly to the right, towards the glove-box, but his back was attached to his seat. Not firmly, but rather as a limb is attached to the body. He lit a cigarette, and suddenly felt worried about what his boss might say if he were to peer through the window and see him sitting there smoking inside the car and in no hurry to get out. A loud hoot made him close the door he had opened on to the road. When the other car had passed, he slowly opened the door again, threw out his cigarette and, clutching the steering-wheel with both hands, made a brusque and violent movement. Useless. He did not even feel any pain. The back of the seat held him comfortably and kept him there. What on earth was happening? He pulled the rear-view mirror downwards and looked at himself. No visible difference in his expression. Except for a vague anxiety he could barely control. On turning his head towards the pavement on the right, he saw a little girl staring at him, at once intrigued and amused. Then a woman appeared with an overcoat which the little girl slipped into without averting her gaze. And as they walked away the mother began arranging the girl’s collar and hair.