This is the story of Roland, who died several years ago by throwing a building. It reminded me of other stories. I begin by one of Borges, Other Inquisitions included. Borges refers to a book called Biathanatos , written by English poet John Donne in the early seventeenth century. The book is about suicide. His thesis is that, just as there are justifiable homicides, suicides there that can be justified. However, Borges says, the work of Donne has a hidden argument.
I will come back to this argument. Now get out of Borges, but stay close in Bioy Casares. I think in A magic modest Bioy quoted curiosity of Ryunosuke Akutagawa. Akutagawa committed suicide in 1927, know that this is not unusual coming from a Japanese of a Japanese writer. Well, shortly before his death, Akutagawa compiled a list of famous suicide. Not noted in her ... I do not know, my view is that of modesty. Bioy curiosity that speech is a name on that list. To include it, so starkly exposed Akutagawa, according to Borges, John Donne wanted to hide, or perhaps suggest. The name is Jesus Christ.
Above I said that Roland died several years ago by throwing a building. I ask you to remember this phrase. Then it will seem confusing, but is not made lightly. Roland's incident also reminded me of Stevenson (I notice that in the vicinity of Borges). We are in London. It's a cold night. No meeting club in an old building. The partners come sparingly at the turntable. Sounds are muted. Chosen letters. One by one, each finds its own. The scene is Club suicide, when Scotland published in 1882. A man in a frock coat turned the ace of spades. Pales. The letter refers to the victim. Soon after, another partner discovers the ace of clubs. Suffers dizziness you feel, you are offered a drink: it is the executor. Two days later, The Times reports on the death of a gentleman in a frock coat, poisoned by the negligence of an apothecary.
once Come to our story: Roland is nineteen. Lives in Manhattan with her parents. In the eleventh floor of an apartment building. The three were given kicks. One afternoon, Sam, the father argues with his wife in the room. Both echo the cries of the building. In the fourth, lying in bed, Roland cover your ears with the pillow. Damn, damn , Sam yells now and looking for something behind the cabinet. He pulls out a rifle, pulls aside the case and points to the woman. Damn, he screams back, and triggers ... No explosion. She makes a face of disgust. Again with that, stupid , he says, Who are you going to scare? in his bed, heard the door slam Roland gives his father to leave home. Roland is said to bear no another one of those fights. It says he hates to depend on them. Also remember your money problems, debts, this time, the old man refuses to pay.
afternoon when it happens. Roland is locked in the room. Put the disc you bought yesterday and lie down. The strident voice of the singer takes him to that morning, when he was alone at home. Memora who entered the bedroom of his father. You looked at the table and under the bed. Later in the dresser. There, in the second drawer, he found the small box. Extracted what I needed and turned everything in its place. Once in the hall, pulled the rifle from the case.
Stop the boat , pronounce the singer. Stop the boat repeats Roland, lying on his bed, his arms around the neck. Is pleased to have considered the issue of footprints. For a moment he froze, it is true. But he reacted quickly. He ran to the bathroom, searched two towels and cleaned the head. Then, using towels and gloves, took the pipe and opened the lock. Left the towels and took the cartridge out of his pocket. Took him by the sleeve and turned it left and right. Remember the golden bullet emitted. After a few seconds, Roland introduced the cartridge in the chamber.
Below music, Roland hears start arguing. Hopes that the second song ends. Off. Back to sit back and mentally rehearse their roles. Ring shot. He will run into the room. Seek not to look at the old, lying on the couch under the window. Daddy, what did you do? What did you do? , cry. Very strong. For neighbors to hear. Old shit, added softly. Then go to the police.
But time passes, and while Mom and Dad are still discussing, Roland knows them away. Far from the climax scene ends with the rifle. He stir in bed. Turn back the music. Item 6. Pump up the volume. He joins the singer to sing the get-your-gunn, get-your-gunn . Off again. Da around the room. Is decided. I think at the time you activate your plan b . If you have no reason to discuss, he's given. A good reason, he thinks, as it leaves the department. Climb to the fifteenth floor and on to the terrace. I hate you, Dad he writes in a paper folded in four and put in the pocket of the jean. He peers over the edge. Calculates the trajectory, as it did in the morning. Recedes. Throws a leap into the void.
Roland falls head as a sink. Do not know your jump is useless. In the eleventh floor, things have taken its course. Sam has the rifle. Points to the woman. This time I will kill you. This time I'll kill you , yells. Roland falls. Get-your-gunn, get-your-gunn echoes in her mind. Look down at the net which put the eighth floor window cleaners yesterday. This morning has proved its strength. Know they hold. Sam's index finger is retracted into the palm of the hand and pulling the trigger. Stimulate trigger needle pin. The needle hits the detonator of the cartridge. The bomb explodes, it produces heat. The heat is transferred to the powder. The gunpowder creates gas. Driving gas the bullet. The woman stumbles and falls. But the missile has not touched. From the chair, she turns to look at the broken window and yells to her husband, Idiot, "Load the gun? I almost give .
The network window cleaners do their job. Roland's body sinks into it like a cocoon and then rebounds. Two. Three times. However, the boy dying. And soon dies. not by throwing the building. I told them. Die to throw the building. A brass bullet has pierced his heart.
That is the story of Roland. It reminded me of other stories. Now fiction stories ... I feel that has not happened. Neither the March 23, 1994 or any other day of any year. Not in Manhattan or anywhere else. Acomodadita now there among Borges, Bioy, Akutagawa, Stevenson and a distant seventeenth-century poet. A sandwich literary fiction a reassuring cushion. Now I remember and think about books, in the shadow of a library, the smell of paper. It is no longer real. Sly, the story has crossed the border. In the territory of fiction. There. This story seeks asylum.
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