THE DISDAIN AND CALMNESS OF MARTYRS

Death bore the form of an apparently happy family. The form of a trouble-making boy. The form of a timid daughter with a taste for mathematics. The form of a four-eyed father with books piled up on the bedside table. The form of a suspiciously attractive woman.

Death bore the form of death.

Couples arguing next to some abandoned thoroughfare, music blaring, car horns, the shouts of a tramp cursing the divinity… The window was open, and the symphony of the city made its way through that place of contact between the room and the outside world. The walls were stained with the colours of the neon sign of the Chinese restaurant opposite. A timeworn sign of intermittent colours projected on to the emptiness of the room. Red, yellow, green, red, yellow, green. I could feel the immensity of Beth all around me, as if the city had been squeezed into those four walls. I hadn’t thought about that for some time, the immensity… For a while I’d been watching the little red lines on the alarm clock, trying to guess when the minute would change. I would count under my breath. One, two, three, four… and so on, up to sixty. I would mentally follow the rhythm of time. I was hardly ever right. Most of the time, I was too slow.

I can’t remember the exact hour, but it was late. I’m sure of that. Five or six in the morning. I know because on the television screen they were trying to sell homemade remedies for hair growth, abdominal exercise machines and penis extenders. Those tacky shopping channels, whose presenter is a long-forgotten actress, tend to appear when the city is waking up.

I have to admit the ringtone on my mobile gave me a start:

Well, shake it up, baby, now (shake it up, baby)

Twist and shout (twist and shout)

Come on, come on, come on…