Read Online Without Blood by Alessandro Baricco - Free Book Online
Authors: Alessandro Baricco
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and closed his eyes.
Nina continued to repeat the name in her mind. Without corners, it slid away, like a glass marble. On an inclined tray.
She turned to look at her purse, sitting on a chair, near the door. She thought of going to get it, but she didn’t, and remained lying on the bed. She thought of the ticket kiosk, of the waiter in the café, of the taxi with the plastic-covered seats. She saw again Pedro Cantos weeping, his hands sunk in the pockets of his overcoat. She saw him as he caressed her, without the courage to breathe. I will never forget this day, she said to herself.
Then she turned, moved closer to Pedro Cantos, and did what she had lived for. She curled up behind him: she pulled her knees up to her chest; aligned her feet until she felt her legs perfectly paired, the two thighs softly joined, the knees like two cups balanced one on the other, the calves separated by nothing; she shrugged her shoulders 96
slightly and slid her hands, joined, between her legs. She looked at herself. She saw an old doll. She smiled. Animal and shell.
Then she thought that however incomprehensible life is, probably we move through it with the single desire to return to the hell that created us, to live beside whoever, once, saved us from the inferno. She tried to ask herself where that absurd faithfulness to horror came from but found that she had no answers. She understood only that nothing is stronger than the instinct to return, to where they broke us, and to replicate that moment forever. Only thinking that the one who saved us once can do it forever.
In a long hell identical to the one from which we came.
But suddenly merciful. And without blood.
The sign outside said its rosary of red lights. They were like the flames of a house on fire.
Nina rested her forehead against Pedro Cantos’s back.
She closed her eyes and slept.
97
Nina continued to repeat the name in her mind. Without corners, it slid away, like a glass marble. On an inclined tray.
She turned to look at her purse, sitting on a chair, near the door. She thought of going to get it, but she didn’t, and remained lying on the bed. She thought of the ticket kiosk, of the waiter in the café, of the taxi with the plastic-covered seats. She saw again Pedro Cantos weeping, his hands sunk in the pockets of his overcoat. She saw him as he caressed her, without the courage to breathe. I will never forget this day, she said to herself.
Then she turned, moved closer to Pedro Cantos, and did what she had lived for. She curled up behind him: she pulled her knees up to her chest; aligned her feet until she felt her legs perfectly paired, the two thighs softly joined, the knees like two cups balanced one on the other, the calves separated by nothing; she shrugged her shoulders 96
slightly and slid her hands, joined, between her legs. She looked at herself. She saw an old doll. She smiled. Animal and shell.
Then she thought that however incomprehensible life is, probably we move through it with the single desire to return to the hell that created us, to live beside whoever, once, saved us from the inferno. She tried to ask herself where that absurd faithfulness to horror came from but found that she had no answers. She understood only that nothing is stronger than the instinct to return, to where they broke us, and to replicate that moment forever. Only thinking that the one who saved us once can do it forever.
In a long hell identical to the one from which we came.
But suddenly merciful. And without blood.
The sign outside said its rosary of red lights. They were like the flames of a house on fire.
Nina rested her forehead against Pedro Cantos’s back.
She closed her eyes and slept.
97
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