sensation.
âWhen heâs got a good day, which is to say when heâs not drunk, he sings like an angel. Mother of God, heâs got volume! But if he doesnât hit the right notes from the beginning, then weâre in trouble. He had to come in three times before he got started. They say he only knows one opera and his teacherâs given up trying to teach him any other. Heâll only take lessons if someone puts a glass of wine in front of him: no wine, no lesson. Iâll be damned! Pity too, heâs got the voice but not the brains!â
The rapid clipping of the scissors and the customersâ laughter punctuated the monologue. Once the topic of the unruly tenor petered out, Maurici browsed through the paper until he had to surrender his face to the foamy cream. His stubble was so dark that under a certain light it took on a bluish hue women found attractive.
Eladi, on his part, stated, âYouâre one of those who need to shave at least twice a day, am I wrong?â
âWhen it comes to hair and beards, Eladi, youâre an expert. Never wrong.â
Once the ephemeral softness was restored to his cheeks, he picked up the paper again. Meanwhile Eladi cut his hair and at the same time talked to Albert, who waited for Maurici to go horseback riding afterwards. The most recent development of the Mexican Revolution and the national news didnât particularly interest him, but he paused briefly on the stock market page.
Eladi handled the scissors with his usual precision. âWhat are we going to do with this lock, Mr. Aldabò? All the wax in the world wonât keep it in place . . .â
He didnât wait for an answer. Maurici, as always, dwelled on the sports section. The sunlight streaming through the window, the scent of lotion rising from his skin, and the monotonous clipping of the scissors lulled him into the usual lethargy of afternoons at the barbershop. He turned the page and suddenly felt completely alert. His eyes slid down to a tiny block of print barely visible among the columns: âThis morning at 3:25 a.m. the body of a woman was found in the Street of the Three Beds. She has been identified as Rita Morera, age twenty-two, a resident of a boardinghouse located at number five of the same street. Apparently, the victim committed suicide by jumping from the balcony of the third floor.â
Albertâs and Eladiâs voices faded to a buzz. Unaware of what he was doing, Maurici pressed his lips together and breathed in deeply, as if struggling for air.His body grew tense. The surrounding objects disappeared into a nebulous spiral that spun faster and faster around him, leaving his head empty. He couldnât see anything but tiny sparks that glittered for a moment and instantly faded out, only to burst forth again within a split second. His memory replayed forgotten words Rita had uttered that last afternoon: âThe room was spinning like a merry-go-round.â Quite unconsciously he clenched his fingers over the arms of the chair so tightly that the joints whitened, as if the effort could stop the vertigo. But the vertigo persisted. There was no floor, no ceiling, no chair, only the endless drop into the black hole. He didnât know how long he stayed like that, drifting at the mercy of the emotional typhoon that threatened to swallow him, peering down into the abyss full of dread and horror. He didnât know when it was that Eladi asked, âCan I do anything else for you, Mr. Aldabò?â and the whirlpool and the buzz finally began to slow down and his fingers, sore as if they had undergone some form of torture, unpried themselves from the arms of the chair. He didnât know if the other two men ever realized that the world had fallen on him.
He rose from the chair slowly, with movements that werenât just languid as usual, but unsteady. As he was about to charge the bill to his fatherâs account, he abruptly changed his
âWhen heâs got a good day, which is to say when heâs not drunk, he sings like an angel. Mother of God, heâs got volume! But if he doesnât hit the right notes from the beginning, then weâre in trouble. He had to come in three times before he got started. They say he only knows one opera and his teacherâs given up trying to teach him any other. Heâll only take lessons if someone puts a glass of wine in front of him: no wine, no lesson. Iâll be damned! Pity too, heâs got the voice but not the brains!â
The rapid clipping of the scissors and the customersâ laughter punctuated the monologue. Once the topic of the unruly tenor petered out, Maurici browsed through the paper until he had to surrender his face to the foamy cream. His stubble was so dark that under a certain light it took on a bluish hue women found attractive.
Eladi, on his part, stated, âYouâre one of those who need to shave at least twice a day, am I wrong?â
âWhen it comes to hair and beards, Eladi, youâre an expert. Never wrong.â
Once the ephemeral softness was restored to his cheeks, he picked up the paper again. Meanwhile Eladi cut his hair and at the same time talked to Albert, who waited for Maurici to go horseback riding afterwards. The most recent development of the Mexican Revolution and the national news didnât particularly interest him, but he paused briefly on the stock market page.
Eladi handled the scissors with his usual precision. âWhat are we going to do with this lock, Mr. Aldabò? All the wax in the world wonât keep it in place . . .â
He didnât wait for an answer. Maurici, as always, dwelled on the sports section. The sunlight streaming through the window, the scent of lotion rising from his skin, and the monotonous clipping of the scissors lulled him into the usual lethargy of afternoons at the barbershop. He turned the page and suddenly felt completely alert. His eyes slid down to a tiny block of print barely visible among the columns: âThis morning at 3:25 a.m. the body of a woman was found in the Street of the Three Beds. She has been identified as Rita Morera, age twenty-two, a resident of a boardinghouse located at number five of the same street. Apparently, the victim committed suicide by jumping from the balcony of the third floor.â
Albertâs and Eladiâs voices faded to a buzz. Unaware of what he was doing, Maurici pressed his lips together and breathed in deeply, as if struggling for air.His body grew tense. The surrounding objects disappeared into a nebulous spiral that spun faster and faster around him, leaving his head empty. He couldnât see anything but tiny sparks that glittered for a moment and instantly faded out, only to burst forth again within a split second. His memory replayed forgotten words Rita had uttered that last afternoon: âThe room was spinning like a merry-go-round.â Quite unconsciously he clenched his fingers over the arms of the chair so tightly that the joints whitened, as if the effort could stop the vertigo. But the vertigo persisted. There was no floor, no ceiling, no chair, only the endless drop into the black hole. He didnât know how long he stayed like that, drifting at the mercy of the emotional typhoon that threatened to swallow him, peering down into the abyss full of dread and horror. He didnât know when it was that Eladi asked, âCan I do anything else for you, Mr. Aldabò?â and the whirlpool and the buzz finally began to slow down and his fingers, sore as if they had undergone some form of torture, unpried themselves from the arms of the chair. He didnât know if the other two men ever realized that the world had fallen on him.
He rose from the chair slowly, with movements that werenât just languid as usual, but unsteady. As he was about to charge the bill to his fatherâs account, he abruptly changed his
Similar Books
