A Cup of Rage (4 page)

more, whether that be love, friendship, the family, the church,
humanity; I couldn't care less about all that! my existence still terrifies me,
but I'm not afraid of being alone, exile was a conscious choice, I'm
satisfied with the cynicism of those great people who are indifferent towards everything
…' ‘oh, he's metaphysicalizing now, is Mr Speculation … if
I slacken the reins he immediately shoots off into asinine twaddle … don't
come with that, you're out-of-date' she said brusquely, dismissing any
criticism, sealing my protests, filing them away without consultation, slipping a solid
iron ring over my bundle of ideas, perhaps there was something of the bull about me (my
long, languid eyelashes?), but you also have to admit that in committing such violence
to my horse's nostrils she went too far, while insisting on her own frivolous
rights, taking a delicious pleasure in stretching the elastic words, chewing on this one
or that as if it were a rubber band or her dad's dick, ‘mirrorizing',
the dirty bitch, ‘metaphysicalizing' in her special way, I needed to call a
halt to this whole farce, it had already gone on far too long as a preamble, I'd
groped her bait too long, the fraud, I had a feeling that the moment was approaching
when her hook would tear my mouth ‘you're impossible, Ms Bureaucrat, but
I'm not going to resist this statement, it's important: it was with great
effort that I learnt to wear my stigma elegantly, now I feel my hands are powerful and
free, can do things, obviously with one eye on the policeman on the corner, and one eye
on clandestine orgies; this is the enlightenment that can be revealed to excluded
people, along with the will to use a spark of that light to set fire to the pages of any
rulebook', and that was when she had a brainwave, ‘I've had' she
said, adding in English, ‘
an
insight
', as if she were having a eureka moment, ‘I think
I've worked out the puzzle, I've finally discovered what our odd-job
man's real “occupation” is, what I'm saying is, it's only
now that I finally understand why you were so loath to speak about your
“work”, why so
much “mystery”, only now do I
understand your affairs, now that all the clues lead me to deduce that you are no more
than a no-good conman, a rat, a forger' before adding a final snub
‘you're not any old forger, you're a graduate forger …'
and I have to confess that my legs started to shake again, in that precise moment I saw
Bingo cut an electric line through the space between her and me, his shiny black fur
stringing another wire in the air, and in his wake I stretched the cord of my nerves
even further, carefully avoiding the suspicion of being a forger, which by the way I
didn't know whether it was said in jest or not, or if, being the one, the other
wasn't prudently part of the mix, I only know that I passed over it, I refrained
from discussing the merits of what she said, didn't permit her to gauge the
seriousness of her supposed discovery, left the fraud clutching at nothing as, with a
magician's sleight-of-hand, I made the apple of her
insight
vanish
‘today I feel relieved of obligations, of course I would have preferred the weight
of duties to that of freedom; I didn't have a choice, I was chosen, and if on the
one hand my destiny was revealed to me, on the other hand destiny took it on itself to
reveal me: I'm responsible for absolutely nothing, I'm no longer master of
my own steps, the path I walk is the broad one, all I do, I already said, is to keep one
eye on the policeman on the corner, the other on clandestine orgies' ‘oops,
better pay attention, else he'll send his words into orbit again … cut the
pomposity and descend from your heights, learn O Stratospheric One that going up is
easy, the real trick is how you come down afterwards; so don't come with talk of
your destiny, fate, karma, scar, mark, branding, stigma, all this paraphernalia that you
bizarrely christen as your “history”; if our metaphysician here would put
his feet on the ground, he would see that this messed-up world only needs rational
solutions, it doesn't much matter that they have their limits, what matters is
that they are the best ones at the time; only an idiot would refuse controls on
something so precarious, and don't forget that in life's
rough and tumble motives aren't the point – although this little question
seems to be doing your head in – it's all about moving the ball forward,
history is pushed onwards by the friendly hand of assassins too; the heights you aspire
to, by the way, your perfectionist fancies, they had to lead to this: the authoritarian
drivel of a scummy iconoclast – the old elephant in the china shop, and to top it
all, you talk in those tragic tones, like the prototype of some class in its last agony
… get lost, carcass!' and she immediately wrote my performance off as
cathartic (‘pure catharsis' she mumbled), a terrifyingly destructive word
and which – through its imprudent use, its abuse – transformed the
fraud's very brain into an atomic mushroom cloud, but again I passed over it, even
leaving the ‘paraphernalia' behind (move the ball forward!) and was pushing
my own history onwards, working out a tropical algebra, as heated as its origins (blood
and sand), a perfect operation that didn't dispense with the fraud's
positive values nor give up my negative values (or the ‘friendly hand of
assassins'): ‘I already said that the margins of society used to torment me,
the margins are now a saving grace, I was repelled when I wanted to take part, let the
world go to the dogs now! let cities fall, let people suffer, let life and freedom
perish, when the ivory king's under threat, who cares about the flesh and blood of
sisters and mothers and children? the soul isn't heavy though sons are dying in
the distance',
²
‘ha ha hah … he's lost it … ha ha hah …
you crook!' ‘everything can come tumbling down, I'll turn my back on
it; meet absurdity with madness, and there could be no other response – yes,
it's a bitter one, but at least it's appropriate, and it doesn't
depend on what you decree, because it's easy to see now what your future holds: as
well as meeting all the requirements to be an excellent journalist, you are perfectly
suited for the women's police; oh, and one more thing, as an abuse of power I
can't see
any difference between an editor-in-chief and a chief
of police, just as there's no difference between a newspaper boss and a government
boss, and both are in cahoots with other kinds of bosses' ‘it's not me
you'll have to deal with one day, you pompous crook, but the people'
‘just once, you fraud, look at what's staring you in the face, even if it is
at odds with your folklore, even if your ears aren't made for such dissonant
tones: the people will never take power!' ‘village idiot! … he's
really having convulsions now, who knows what else will come of this fit …'
‘the people will never take power! so it won't be them I have to deal with
one day; hurt and humiliated, the people are only, and always will be, a ruled mass
that, by the way, says stupid things which you exalt, without realizing that in general
the people say and think what the powers-that-be allow; they actually speak for
themselves when they speak (as I do) with the body, which doesn't help much,
because their identity never blends with their supposed representatives' identity,
and because the shitty strong arm of authority is necessarily the basis of all
“order”, a rather shrewd word, as it happens, that simultaneously
incorporates an unbearably commanding voice and a presumption of where things should be;
of course the people can reap some benefits, but always only as the mass that emerging
leaders manipulate; so, forward, fraud, forward – with the people in your mouth,
parroting their simple if picturesque speech, stuffing your mimicry down the throats of
the already suffocating sheep, just like the impassive ventriloquist who puts the little
ones on his knee like a good father, and even uses his art to reveal some tricks, while
still tricking them by concealing his own voice; but don't worry, fraud,
you'll get there … riding, naturally, your usurped revolt, riding your
second-hand revolt; but as for this crook, this lost son here, I've just got one
thing to say: nobody guides the one whom God has led astray! which is why I accept
neither this pigsty we've got nor any other “order”
that might be established, so listen –' I said reaching the zenith of my
liturgy and, thinking of the supposed ascent of my words, I lowered my tone dirtily to
compensate: ‘I've got balls, fraud, I don't need a higher
power!' ‘hosannah! behold the man! Narcissus! always remote and fragile,
anarchy's offspring! … ha ha hah! … he's dogmatic, a caricature
and depraved … ha ha hah!' ‘get this, fraud, all “order”
privileges some people and things' ‘get this, you crook, disorder does too
– it privileges brute force, for starters' ‘plain brute force, without
any legitimizing law' ‘I'm talking of the law of the jungle'
‘which doesn't put on a show of modesty, doesn't allow space for
hypocrisy, and doesn't unjustly call on aseptic reason as a crutch'
‘so put on a loincloth, or do without one, gorilla-boy' ‘I'll do
without your advice, you stay there, in your circle of light, and leave me here, in my
thick darkness, I didn't start wallowing in this blackness yesterday; I
haven't cultivated a seraphic paleness, I don't lend my eyes a pious look,
nor do I ever put a saintly mask on my face, nor nourish the hope of seeing my image
enthroned on an altar; unlike good Samaritans I don't love my neighbour, nor know
who that would be, to be short about my preferences: I don't like people; after
all, fraud, someone has to – and now I'll use your magic little word –
“assume” the role of the story's shadowy villain, someone has to
assume it at the very least so you can keep your bright halo hovering above the back of
your head; so I'll take on all evil, since the divine is as much in evil as it is
in holiness; and then, fraud, if I can't be loved, I'll be most content to
be hated' ‘with reason out of reach, he now ridiculously resuscitates
himself as Lucifer … ha ha hah … sound and fury … ha ha hah …
you're nothing more than a by-product of hidden passions, and all this mumbo-jumbo
that you go into such detail about, only serves, by the way, to confirm some old
suspicions of mine … between ourselves, a moral aberration is always the offspring
of unconfessable aberrations, only
that can explain your
“whims” … along with, of course, why an active woman like me scares
you … and as for your arrogant, contemplative “exile”, it's
clear as day now: banished by the collective consciousness that never tolerates
weaklings, you had to live out in the country; in our ecologist's favour, however,
it will be remembered that he didn't wheel in pollution as his reason for leaving,
thus imitating those master swindlers who – to better hide their real motives
– let fools grasp their own despicable conclusions from what looks obvious, a
perfect game to play as it happens: it leaves everyone happy – while the first,
playful lot enjoys its trick in silence, the other, noisy lot celebrates its shrewd
judgement; but that's not the case with you: a swindler but not a master, what
should have stayed hidden ended up obvious too, it backfired, as this was your only
possible “destiny”: to live in a hideaway with someone of your kind …
Lucifer and his rabid dog … that could be turned into a film … ha ha hah
… one of the them closing the little gaps in the hedge, the other standing guard
until night arrives, both of them doing their utmost to secure their private sphere, and
then afterwards, on the quiet … mutually … between scratching and licking
… elaborating with their little muzzles their clandestine orgies … ha ha hah
… ha ha hah … ha ha hah … it makes me sick!' her words hailed
down on me, picking up more with a steady hand, she flung reason in my face again and
stabbed me with sharp spines, I held back my slobber, but my teeth were clacking, for
that reason alone I started punching holes in the haemorrhagic discourse of my cerebral
stroke, ‘yes, me, who's been led astray, yes, me, the enraged individualist,
me, the enemy of the people, me, the irrationalist, corrupted me, with my epilepsy,
delirium and madness, passionate me …' ‘burn me, O Fiery Mouth!
… ha ha hah …' ‘… me, the convulsing wick, me, the spark
of confusion, me, inflamed matter, me, perpetual heat, me, the destroying flame
…' ‘transform
me into your glowing embers! … ha
ha hah …' ‘me, the experienced handler of my trident, me, who cooks up
a giant pot of sulphur, me, always licking my lips at children's sweet flesh
…' ‘oh sweet and violent fire! … ha ha hah …'
‘me, the cyst, the sore, the canker, the ulcer, the tumour, the wound, the
body's cancer, me, all this without any irony and much more, but I don't
hide my own appetites behind the hunger of the people; and know this too, that I
don't give a shit for all your blather, and it's only my good hygiene that
keeps me from wiping my arse on your humanism; I already said I have a different life, a
different weight, you dwarf of a woman, you just can't get that into your
head' I said, pouring my bile into the blood of my words, feeling I'd
knocked a bone or two of hers awry, I'd hit home about the disguise, not to speak
of the pre-emptive rejection of her humanism, but her agility was just amazing, seeing
that there wasn't room for more words in this fight the dwarf, although she was
annoyed, quickly grabbed the tail end of my rocket and simultaneously – with an
eloquent cock of her hips – started inciting me to fight, saying ‘a little
boy, magnificent in all he does … you old fascist!', she pronounced her
sentence in two clearly distinct tones, and where the first implied a forced mockery,
with a feral bit of evil curled round it, the second implied a final seriousness, with a
wisp of hurt coiled round it, and so I, although shaking, started to advance more
confidently, and get my breath back without her noticing, and since I was recovering the
calm of each word (all of them still nervous inside), I risked saying ‘just one
question: do you know what I think of you, compared to me?' ‘you are
incapable, absolutely incapable of having an opinion' ‘all right, but do you
know what I think of you and of me, comparing us?' ‘spit it out, you little
crook' ‘I admit that in certain moments I turn into a fascist, I do and I
know I do, but you turn into one too, just like me, it's just that when you do,
you don't know it; that's the only difference