The Writer looked at the screen: the run was clear, the snow perfect. He took a deep breath, and flung himself down it.
*
There is no man who, a moment after switching off the light, isn’t assailed by a question: Am I an impostor?
In other words: Do I really deserve what life has given me?
And there is no way to dismiss this question without turning the light back on. It is of little consequence if he is a writer, a carpenter or a horse thief. No human being can avoid the question without lying to himself.
We each of us have, deep in our soul, a fragile urn that contains the answer. But since we are convinced that the answer is even more painful than the question, we mostly prefer to ignore it.
That is how we lead our lives, either with studied caution or wild recklessness, either taking great care not to break the urn or knocking against everything and everyone and hoping that a glancing blow will smash it to pieces. Unfortunately—or fortunately—none of us knows if, how and when our urn will break. And in the case of most human beings, their secret goes to the grave with them.
The strongest or weakest among us manage to break the urn and peer inside. But after doing so, we can no longer look even at our dog with the same eyes, whatever the answer we have glimpsed there.
Now if we only stopped for a moment to think, it is quite obvious that there is no merit or design or logic in the way luck and talent are distributed and this world. For every man kissed by the sun there are millions in the shade, and there is no valid reason to rule out—or maintain—the possibility that the one is better than the other.
At the same time, it would be equally arrogant to deny it.
We see the result, but the process escapes us. In the dark, turbulent sea of doubt we glimpse lights every now and again, and we follow them, hoping they are the lights of the coast. Sometimes they are genuine landing places, sometimes only the reflection of the moon on the rocks. In both cases, the time that has been granted us to sail ends before the end of the journey, and there is no way to add a single second.
But there also exists something immortal that cannot be grasped or weighed in a balance, and that is the precious moment in which we forget ourselves and become other. And the few times that happens we stop the heartbeat of time and feel we belong to what surrounds us, what has preceded us and what will follow us. It can happen at any moment: listening to the background music while waiting for a call centre to answer us, cooking for our friends, waiting for our children at the school gate.
So there are countless reasons to remain on this Godforsaken planet that was long considered the only world, if for no other reason than to learn the end of our story: what the author of our lives has not yet taken the trouble to finish.
But my urn is broken, and now that I know the answer, I can remain no longer.
Am I an impostor?
Excuse me, I have to turn on the light.
It had come all in one go. Without hesitation or correction. Never in his entire career had he written such clean, precise sentences. As he typed away at the keyboard, he had felt as though he were carving the words on a wax tablet with a stylus. He read it again. It was concise and effective. No need to change a single comma. He wasn’t so bad after all. What a pity he’d had writer’s block all these years. He sighed, and sent the letter as an e-mail attachment to all the contacts in his address book (publishers, newspaper editors, friends, whores, acquaintances and strangers). Then he switched off the computer and his mobile and went out. The Great Moment had come.
But were all those people passing him distractedly as he walked towards the river, that bovine humanity dragging itself God knows where, bustling through the streets to achieve its dubious plans, to satisfy the vanity of its desires, aware of his greatness? Did that human herd have even a vague idea of the privilege that had
been granted them in brushing against an artist of his calibre—especially in the final moments of his vast, incomparable life?
Apparently not. One man even knocked him with his elbow and didn’t apologize.
The Writer had reached the centre of the city and was walking now in the shade of the lime trees, alongside the ramparts beside the Tiber. He looked at the people on the pavements, the cars and mopeds speeding by just a few metres from him.
So was it for them that he had brought his books out over the years? Were they his invisible readers, the silent enzymes that swallowed his nonsense? The inscrutable sherpas who carried his heavy books up to the top of the best-seller lists? In other words, were they his employers?
The Writer descended the stone steps that led him to the banks of the river. It was getting towards evening. At that hour, people were coming out to get a bit of fresh air. In summer, they set up an artificial seafront on the river bank, filled with stands and stalls, a permanent
movida
. The Writer walked through it with a touch of annoyance.
He walked until he was so far away that he no longer heard the commotion.
At that hour, the sky of Rome turned a soft, hazy pink, the kind you see in certain frescoes of the Neapolitan school; at that hour the courier, after ringing in vain at the entryphone, left the prize from Torchio Wines outside The Master’s gate; at that hour the staminate cells in The Girlfriend’s uterus were at work constructing organs and tissues; at that hour the lights were being lit in the grounds of Villa Naike and the waiters were getting their first reprimands from the maître d’; at that hour The Writer’s press officer was starting to get worried because his mobile was switched off. At that hour The Second Wife was looking for him in the house, at that hour a few people had already read his e-mail. At that hour The Writer,
protected by the shadows of evening, stopped beneath the arches of a bridge.
He undressed solemnly and laid his clothes on the bench. Then, as naked as Adam, he looked at the sunset, and the yellow-brown river calling him to it. He put one foot in the water.
It was really cold…
Even dying has its disadvantages.
THE PRIZE IN SHOCK
:
Writer takes his own life a few hours before The Ceremony
Stunning gesture by the favourite. Motive still unknown. Nothing to suggest such a tragic outcome
This is a victory without
victors
. The party we would have preferred not to go to, the article we would never have wanted to write. For once, the world of letters is speechless.
It is a few hours to the proclamation of the winner. Everything is ready in Villa Naike. The lawn is like a
billiard
table, the grounds lit up as if in daylight, the tables
allocated
, the waiters lined up behind the buffet.
Politicians, journalists,
writers
and figures from the fashion world and from cinema and theatre are strolling about the grounds exchanging the usual wishes and predictions. It is an event like any other, a prize ceremony like any other.
And yet it isn’t.
That something is not right is clear from the nervousness at the table of The Publishing Company that has won The Prize most often over the years. The Publisher, who is looking very elegant in his pinstripe suit, has not touched his food, nor has he issued any
statements
. The press officer’s face is drawn as he paces the grounds nervously in search of a secluded corner to talk into his mobile phone. The dinner is served, but there is still no sign of The Writer. His plate is empty. He has not even
appeared
for the usual interviews. There is irritation among the organizers and the members of The Academy and
disappointment
among the
photographers
and cameramen, who
in his absence have to make do with the other two finalists.
Visibly excited, The Beginner grants every
interview
he is asked for. “For me, getting this far is already a victory,” he says. “But there are other things in life.” He winks at his Girlfriend, who is half hidden behind the
assembled
journalists. “At my age,” declares The Master, who is wearing a Panama hat and a creased linen suit, “I think I’m entitled to win. To be quite honest, I shouldn’t even have to compete. They ought to give me The Prize as a matter of course.” Someone teases him with the question: “Why isn’t The Writer here yet?” “I don’t know,” says The Master with a laugh, “maybe he’s afraid of losing.”
But in fact it is much worse than that. The host takes his time as he recalls the names of past winners and thanks the sponsors. Then it is the turn of the Mayor, who says that The Prize “is part of the history of our country”.
The final vote has not started yet. The audience are getting restless and noisy. The press officer is conferring with The Publisher, who finally stands up and goes to The President of The Academy. He
whispers
something in his ear. The President of The Academy shakes his head. He goes to the chairman of the jury. The chairman of the jury nods gravely. Then they call The President. There is a heated discussion at the back of the platform. The assistants come and go frantically. The
audience
want to know what is happening. By now it is
obvious
that something is wrong, but what?
In the end, after much
consultation
, the host gets up on the platform. This is going out live on the media. He looks ashen, and his voice breaks as he reads a brief statement: The Writer has taken his own life.
There is a murmur of dismay, incredulity, sadness. Then
silence
. A grim silence like that preceding a storm. Everyone freezes, like statues in a living Nativity. Mobile phones start ringing, all together, like crazed cicadas. The news is out, and
people are calling. They have heard about it on television, they want confirmations or denials. Rumours are already circulating: it is said that there is a suicide note, although it has not yet been broadcast. After a while, the host returns to the platform. Yes, it is true, the note has arrived. It is more than a note, it is a long letter. The chairman gets up on the platform and reads it.
A few people weep. Others laugh. Others still remain silent.
The Prize committee gather. Something like this has never happened before. The rules do not even have any provision for it. After what seems an
interminable
time, The President of The Academy moves away from the group and gets up on the platform to make an
announcement
. After much
consultation
the jury has decided to award The Prize to The Writer, in his memory. It has been a difficult decision, and the controversy begins raging almost immediately. The other two finalists are besieged by the press.
“It’s a real tragedy. I’m deeply shocked. I’ve lost a friend, and literature has lost one of its leading lights. I hope this
sacrifice
makes us stop and think. We are all responsible for what has happened…” These are The Publisher’s first,
spontaneous
words. The Beginner weeps as he tries to brush off the TV cameras. “Leave me alone,” he says. “I have nothing to say, I only want to go home.” “Today, Justice died,” says The Master. “This theoretical
victory
is a travesty.”
It is almost midnight, and the journalists who are
waiting
to file their stories can wait no longer. From Police Headquarters comes the news that some clothes have been found on the banks of the Tiber and The Writer’s Wife has identified them: they are her husband’s. The search is beginning for his body. Villa Naike is emptying. The west wind is starting to blow. The sultry heat is fading. But not the grief.
F.B.
Silent, like gloves fallen from the pockets of distracted pedestrians, an untold number of rooks (
Corvus frugilegus
) lie in the snow at the sides of the roads in Sweden.
In the Po Valley, hundreds of turtle doves (
Streptopelia turtur
) cover the fields and ditches with a carpet of coffee-coloured feathers.
Thousands of red-winged blackbirds (
Agelaius phoeniceus
) rain down like advertising leaflets from the oblivious sky of Arkansas.
There’s nothing unusual in this, says an expert. Hundreds of similar cases occur every year, some reported in the media, some not.
There are those who maintain that the blackbirds died because of a trauma suffered in flight, perhaps a sudden change in temperature between the different layers of the atmosphere, a patch of turbulence or a violent storm. Others claim that the birds flew too close to radar waves, or that they were electrocuted by high-tension cables.
Some ascribe the deaths of the rooks to a trauma caused by fireworks on New Year’s Eve. Scientists are unconvinced by this theory.
There are those who hypothesize that the turtle doves were poisoned, or died of indigestion after eating sunflower seeds. The test results will soon be known, according to a veterinarian.
There are many who maintain that it is a bad omen, a threat of divine
punishment
, recalling the Old Testament and the ten plagues of Egypt (Exodus 7:14).
It could also be a variation in the Earth’s magnetism.
If only men looked up at the sky, they would see the swallows turning
acrobatically
, the jackdaws returning at sunset with twigs in their beaks, the crows coming to rest on the lamp posts, the sparrows pecking at pots of basil on window sills, the egrets closing their wings like umbrellas with broken ribs, the bitterns drying their feathers in the cold morning wind, the water rails patrolling the banks of the river, the hungry kites flying up from ruined towers, the heavy-winged screech owls crossing the dream-laden night.
If only men looked up at the sky, they would see this and much more. But they don’t.
We can die if no one looks at us.