Читать книгу Narcosis - Francisco Garófalo - Страница 4

He was sitting on a bench drinking a cup of tea. He lived in a white house, although he had never liked that colour. He had an absent expression, gazing in no particular direction. He was serene, nothing interrupted him, nothing bothered him, nothing disturbed him, until his hand touched a square object that felt awkward inside his jacket.

Overcome with curiosity, he decided to take it out of his pocket; it was an old, creased notebook with a worn cover, dirty after so many years of abandonment. The strange thing for him was finding his name written on the notebook, as the title was “Lorenzo’s Diary”.

Lorenzo opened the notebook to glance through it and after a short scan, he closed it. He was overcome by a deep sense of curiosity and anxiety. He opened it anew. Were they perhaps words that he did not remember, sentences without meaning, anecdotes or simply memories that at some time it had occurred to him to write down? He had no idea; he would have to investigate. He felt a pain in his chest. Were they events he could no longer remember, an existence he had lived, an endless number of thoughts grouped together by date? He would have to find out what it was about.

He made himself comfortable on his bench in the Ecuadorian sunshine so that he could read carefully.

It began: I, Lorenzo, have decided to write this diary in case one day I forget what I have experienced in my life. I have not recorded my surname because I don’t have one. The circumstances that, in the past, led me to commit acts I should never have committed now torment me in the present. I accumulated debts in the past but I did not honour them. Now I am paying them.

The fact is, we all pay what we owe, although sometimes some people pay more than they owe. The worst thing is that I do not remember everything I did or failed to do.

Who wants to remember their misery? Although nobody can say that my whole life has been miserable, perhaps my destiny was simply written in the stars. I don’t know.

I do not remember where everything happened, nor when, nor the places, nor the times when maybe I was happy. I do not remember much. That is why I write. That is why I wrote to remember it, to not forget what I did, to not forget my sins, to not forget what I have already forgotten.

My mother died giving birth to me and I never knew the whereabouts of my father. That’s why I went to live at my Aunt Carlota’s house. At the time I did not know why my aunt was taking responsibility for me.

We arrived at the blue house with bone-coloured interior walls and I must confess I did not like those colours. I have never been very receptive to colours. I do not believe a colour makes a difference to how you live each day, as some psychologists claim, propounding theories that perhaps could be true. Personally, I think it is nonsense. Only our good deeds and our shortcomings make a difference.

The important thing is how we act and proceed in this wretched world, and I use the word “wretched” not because it really is, but just because I was unlucky or because I borrowed too much and then I did not want to pay.

We know that we are good at borrowing but very bad when it is time to pay. We know that and yet still we carry on doing the same things, justifying ourselves with the banal pretext that “we are only human”. But if we are human we should know that we are the most intelligent animals in the world. Maybe our intelligence is what makes us complete. I don’t know, perhaps I will never know.