Read Online Turing's Delirium by Edmundo Paz Soldán - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Edmundo Paz Soldán
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morning.
Murderer, your hands are stained with blood.
What murderer? What hands? What blood? Who could have sent it to you? How had they managed to get into the Black Chamber's secret communication network? You couldn't evaluate how important that message was and had decided to ignore it. You don't know whether you did the right thing. Nor do you care. You are tired of your boss and his paranoia about security.
Carla hands you a glass of whiskey and sits down next to you. Hastened by her determined look, by the eloquent expression of desire on her face, you put a hand on her left thigh, pliant and speckled with red blemishes. She places her lips on yours; her warm, inquisitive tongue skillfully parts them. Frightened and trembling, you let yourself be led. That's how it happened the first time. You took her to a hotel, paid for her room, and helped her to get settled. You were about to leave when you were surprised by the urgency of her kiss, when she pulled you onto the bed, her hands hurriedly undressing you. Only afterward, when she told you to meet her the next day at the El Dorado, did you realize how she made her living and begin to understand her parents a little. But it was too late.
"Is this how you like it? You're so tense, darling."
Your time with Carla is your great escape to a way of being that has led you to see a psychologist on more than one occasion. Still, it's only a partial escape. Carla may caress and make love to you dressed as one of your wildest fantasies, but your mind is still elsewhere. You should let yourself go, let your mind take part in the experience as much as your body, but you can't be something you're not. In photos, you are always to one side, looking down at the floor, trying not to be noticed, never looking into the lens of the camera.
"If you don't want our time to slip away, you should stop thinking about your wife."
Your:
the unbearable lightness of an
r
pronounced by a California girl, at least in that word. She is taking the imitation very seriously.
"I haven't thought about her in years."
It's strange but true. You have been meeting Carla on a regular basis for two months now, and you don't feel like you're being unfaithful to Ruth. Devoid of desire, your marriage has become a quiet friendship. She lives her life and you live yours. You have stimulating conversations, the product of an affinity for the same topics, but sleeping together has ceased to be an adventure and is instead a tolerable inconvenience.
The way Carla unbuttons your shirt or plays with the zipper on your pants is evidence of her skill. Your socks fall to the floor in the shape of an
x.
You are naked and your reflection in the mirror on the ceiling is deformed. Those can't be your chubby legs, nor that disproportionate torso. And all those wrinkles on that face ... The years take their toll.
She is about to slip off her miniskirt when you stop her.
"The idea is for you to leave your clothes on. That's why I asked you to dress that way."
Her gaze is vacant. There are three moles on her left cheek, and the way she speaks is slightly annoying.
Darling
this and
darling
that. Fucking
darling.
She crouches on the bed and begins to play with you. Nibbling, her tongue slippery. You are going to surprise her by lasting a long time, because while she does her work you will distract yourself by thinking about the man who deciphered Purple, about Bacon's anagrams in Shakespeare's work. As Carla goes about her business, you focus your mind. If the letter
a
is added to the last two lines of the epilogue of
The Tempestâ
"As you from crimes would pardon'd be / Let your indulgence set me free"âthe following anagram can be formed: "'Tempest' of Francis Bacon, Lord Verulam / Do ye ne'er divulge me ye words."
Have you fallen in love, or is it need that brings you to her? You don't know. What you do know is that in your office in the archives you began to miss your time with Carla, long to be reunited with her
Murderer, your hands are stained with blood.
What murderer? What hands? What blood? Who could have sent it to you? How had they managed to get into the Black Chamber's secret communication network? You couldn't evaluate how important that message was and had decided to ignore it. You don't know whether you did the right thing. Nor do you care. You are tired of your boss and his paranoia about security.
Carla hands you a glass of whiskey and sits down next to you. Hastened by her determined look, by the eloquent expression of desire on her face, you put a hand on her left thigh, pliant and speckled with red blemishes. She places her lips on yours; her warm, inquisitive tongue skillfully parts them. Frightened and trembling, you let yourself be led. That's how it happened the first time. You took her to a hotel, paid for her room, and helped her to get settled. You were about to leave when you were surprised by the urgency of her kiss, when she pulled you onto the bed, her hands hurriedly undressing you. Only afterward, when she told you to meet her the next day at the El Dorado, did you realize how she made her living and begin to understand her parents a little. But it was too late.
"Is this how you like it? You're so tense, darling."
Your time with Carla is your great escape to a way of being that has led you to see a psychologist on more than one occasion. Still, it's only a partial escape. Carla may caress and make love to you dressed as one of your wildest fantasies, but your mind is still elsewhere. You should let yourself go, let your mind take part in the experience as much as your body, but you can't be something you're not. In photos, you are always to one side, looking down at the floor, trying not to be noticed, never looking into the lens of the camera.
"If you don't want our time to slip away, you should stop thinking about your wife."
Your:
the unbearable lightness of an
r
pronounced by a California girl, at least in that word. She is taking the imitation very seriously.
"I haven't thought about her in years."
It's strange but true. You have been meeting Carla on a regular basis for two months now, and you don't feel like you're being unfaithful to Ruth. Devoid of desire, your marriage has become a quiet friendship. She lives her life and you live yours. You have stimulating conversations, the product of an affinity for the same topics, but sleeping together has ceased to be an adventure and is instead a tolerable inconvenience.
The way Carla unbuttons your shirt or plays with the zipper on your pants is evidence of her skill. Your socks fall to the floor in the shape of an
x.
You are naked and your reflection in the mirror on the ceiling is deformed. Those can't be your chubby legs, nor that disproportionate torso. And all those wrinkles on that face ... The years take their toll.
She is about to slip off her miniskirt when you stop her.
"The idea is for you to leave your clothes on. That's why I asked you to dress that way."
Her gaze is vacant. There are three moles on her left cheek, and the way she speaks is slightly annoying.
Darling
this and
darling
that. Fucking
darling.
She crouches on the bed and begins to play with you. Nibbling, her tongue slippery. You are going to surprise her by lasting a long time, because while she does her work you will distract yourself by thinking about the man who deciphered Purple, about Bacon's anagrams in Shakespeare's work. As Carla goes about her business, you focus your mind. If the letter
a
is added to the last two lines of the epilogue of
The Tempestâ
"As you from crimes would pardon'd be / Let your indulgence set me free"âthe following anagram can be formed: "'Tempest' of Francis Bacon, Lord Verulam / Do ye ne'er divulge me ye words."
Have you fallen in love, or is it need that brings you to her? You don't know. What you do know is that in your office in the archives you began to miss your time with Carla, long to be reunited with her
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