42
There was a soundless voice in the room at night, a voice from those days which never were: “Remember how I lay down on the tarmac?”
No, he doesn’t remember, he mustn’t remember. He doesn’t remember the attic, either; he remembers a face, a woman’s face, pretty and asymmetrical. A face where everything—eyes, eyebrows—is in flight. A beloved face. How could he forget? It would be like forgetting himself… but as for what had happened, well, he remembers nothing. And he must not remember!
But the figure lying on its back on the tarmac has no intention of forsaking his memory.
And an answer comes, the key to salvation: “It didn’t happen to me.” Yes, that is how to think of it: it happened to somebody else. It happened…
