quickly generates a catalogue of emotions, of memories crammed into this narrow period of time, thatprisoners are amazed that to create their earlier emotions – those beyond the prison walls, they needed an entire, intensely-lived life. In spite of this, Juan was horrified to think that, if we were alive in our tombs, we would probably end up loving the worms.
He used Miguel Eymar’s jersey to bribe Sergeant Edelmiro, but learned only that Paz was on the fourth floor, not what his sentence had been. He tried to send him a message, but had nothing left to pay for any favours. So Eugenio Paz never found out that Juan Senra had embraced him as a friend and brother.
He never knew that Juan Senra was asking where he could find the pregnant girl from Seville to tell her Eugenio was faithful and missed her so much. He never knew that Juan was worried about the way he rubbed his head raw when he tried to scratch the lice.
Then one morning, peering up at the bars of the glassless window, he heard Eugenio Paz’s name called out by the officer who read the list of those condemned to die that day. Juan made the last physical effort of his life and pulled himself up level with the window. He shouted at the top of his voice:
‘Eugenio! Don’t get on the lorry! It’s me, Juan!’
The officer’s voice went on reading out names, as though nothing and nobody could stop him. Gradually, Juan’s hands slipped from the bars and he fell in a heap on the floor. He cried in a way he no longer thought possible after living through a war. As the noise of the lorry died away outside the prison gate, an interpreter of tears, some expert translator of sobs, might have caught the fact that, in the midst of all his gasping lament, Juan had said the word ‘Farewell’. But nobody did hear him, and for two days and nights he was gripped by a lethargy that was impervious to cold and hunger as well as to any encouragement. It was as though his biology had ceased to function, as if time itself had died of sadness.
Juan knew he did not have long to finish his letter. He wrote in a neat, tiny handwriting until he had filled all the paper he had managed to obtain:
I’m still alive, but by the time you receive this letter I’ll have been shot. I’ve tried to go mad but cannot. I refuse to go on living with all this sadness. I’ve discovered that the language I dreamt in order to create a happier world is in fact the language of the dead. Remember me always and try to be happy. Your loving brother, Juan.
He tried to imagine how the chaplain would react when he came to censor the letter. He licked the envelope, wrote his brother’s address on the front, and handed it to the guard on duty. This was what they always did.
This was how the dead always said goodbye to the living.
On the third day, Sergeant Edelmiro repeated his name until Juan finally stirred out of his stupor. Someone helped him to the cell door. This time the two soldiers did not walk flanking him: they needed all their strength to carry him to the room where the woman in the astrakhan coat was waiting. There she was, concerned and maternal, a dark vampire concealing the slight figure of Colonel Eymar, who as always hovered in the background.
She asked if he was ill. It took Juan a long time to reply, as though he had not understood. When he finally did, it was to say: ‘I’m dead.’ ‘Oh come on, come on,’ she said, trying to encourage him. She led him over to the ledge. It will all be over one day. Juan let her lead him to sit down, but shook his head.
‘You’re young. All this will be over one day. You’ll see.’ Juan was still shaking his head softly. ‘I’ve brought you a roll.’
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘You need to eat, you don’t look well.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘So what’s wrong?’
Juan took a good look at these two sickly-sweet beings who were talking and behaving as if they owned him. Juan was their plaything, something that was meant to perform
He used Miguel Eymar’s jersey to bribe Sergeant Edelmiro, but learned only that Paz was on the fourth floor, not what his sentence had been. He tried to send him a message, but had nothing left to pay for any favours. So Eugenio Paz never found out that Juan Senra had embraced him as a friend and brother.
He never knew that Juan Senra was asking where he could find the pregnant girl from Seville to tell her Eugenio was faithful and missed her so much. He never knew that Juan was worried about the way he rubbed his head raw when he tried to scratch the lice.
Then one morning, peering up at the bars of the glassless window, he heard Eugenio Paz’s name called out by the officer who read the list of those condemned to die that day. Juan made the last physical effort of his life and pulled himself up level with the window. He shouted at the top of his voice:
‘Eugenio! Don’t get on the lorry! It’s me, Juan!’
The officer’s voice went on reading out names, as though nothing and nobody could stop him. Gradually, Juan’s hands slipped from the bars and he fell in a heap on the floor. He cried in a way he no longer thought possible after living through a war. As the noise of the lorry died away outside the prison gate, an interpreter of tears, some expert translator of sobs, might have caught the fact that, in the midst of all his gasping lament, Juan had said the word ‘Farewell’. But nobody did hear him, and for two days and nights he was gripped by a lethargy that was impervious to cold and hunger as well as to any encouragement. It was as though his biology had ceased to function, as if time itself had died of sadness.
Juan knew he did not have long to finish his letter. He wrote in a neat, tiny handwriting until he had filled all the paper he had managed to obtain:
I’m still alive, but by the time you receive this letter I’ll have been shot. I’ve tried to go mad but cannot. I refuse to go on living with all this sadness. I’ve discovered that the language I dreamt in order to create a happier world is in fact the language of the dead. Remember me always and try to be happy. Your loving brother, Juan.
He tried to imagine how the chaplain would react when he came to censor the letter. He licked the envelope, wrote his brother’s address on the front, and handed it to the guard on duty. This was what they always did.
This was how the dead always said goodbye to the living.
On the third day, Sergeant Edelmiro repeated his name until Juan finally stirred out of his stupor. Someone helped him to the cell door. This time the two soldiers did not walk flanking him: they needed all their strength to carry him to the room where the woman in the astrakhan coat was waiting. There she was, concerned and maternal, a dark vampire concealing the slight figure of Colonel Eymar, who as always hovered in the background.
She asked if he was ill. It took Juan a long time to reply, as though he had not understood. When he finally did, it was to say: ‘I’m dead.’ ‘Oh come on, come on,’ she said, trying to encourage him. She led him over to the ledge. It will all be over one day. Juan let her lead him to sit down, but shook his head.
‘You’re young. All this will be over one day. You’ll see.’ Juan was still shaking his head softly. ‘I’ve brought you a roll.’
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘You need to eat, you don’t look well.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘So what’s wrong?’
Juan took a good look at these two sickly-sweet beings who were talking and behaving as if they owned him. Juan was their plaything, something that was meant to perform
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