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It is easy to think about speaking to him. Not like someone who comes backfrom a rapid loss of consciousness and, while still confused, is set on talkingwith something that doesn’t exist. Not a roaming butterfly seeking to land onuseless flowers. Despite being beautiful, it is warped and doesn’t ease any pain.No inventing escapes, reticence or abstraction. If she could be eye to eyewith him, comment on some banal topic – not the pain, not the pain now –surrounded by light things, talking about Spring, espresso coffee with cream,the correct temperature for red wine, smoking or not smoking mentholcigarettes, and weather conditions in Salvador. Something like an almondtree leaf in the wind: light in its reddened recesses but useless in its originalfunction. That friends, true friends, she read somewhere and still remembers,only need proximity, not deep conversations or confessions. They need toclick their tongues, arrive a hand’s span from the other’s heart but not enter,remaining outside, like guardians who tell stories to trick the dawn.A supporting conversation for the body, a pilaster conversation, a Greekcolumn to bear the pain. Support this bleeding, darling. Be very nice to thebody in secret, to put itself right again, for the pain to be well-behaved. Not sosharp. Good girl in the shop window, as Baudelaire said, Ana C. repeated, andwe will repeat now, why not? Good and anaesthetized, please.One step after another. That’s what’s needed. There is an excess of carbonmonoxide in hell. From the bowels of hell, it must seep out quietly but precisely.Once again, reborn. Sing an old song: we pricked you with a thorn, you werea rose and didn’t bleed; we pricked you with a needle, your body was tangledand bisected; we pricked you with the hand of God, you were a goddess andgraciously turned away.So simple to ask him for help.So impossible to obtain it.A devil plays the piano.Or is it the clarinet?A devil dances in the distance.Or is it inside?While she tries to locate him in her mind, to talk about everything, exceptfor the violence, with him and only him, and feel the world, it grows dark. Shestumbles in weakness: dizziness and unprepared to put the events in order. Thechannel of the mind closes. His image disappears.Disgrace.That serene voice, the calm of satin sheets which is nestling him disappears.Misery.How to get close, how to inhale that smell again behind his ear which onlythat corner of his ear has?Stroking his hair, lightly touching his lips and saying I was violated, my love.ÁLLEX LEILLA269