I remember, when I was young, blowing up balloons. It must have been at Christmas, because I never had birthday parties, my father didn’t believe in them – a waste of money, he said. Puff, puff, puff … The skin of the balloon was so tight, so stretched. Puff, puff, puff … Will it take any more air? Puff, puff … I remember thinking, if I blow one more time, it will burst. And I did – puff – a strong blow, and the balloon burst in my face.
I feel a little like that now. My head is like that balloon. It’s very close to bursting. One more breath, one more puff, and perhaps I too will burst, my brains flying in every direction, my skull just shattered, empty fragments.
Why did I do it? I don’t know. I have no idea. I couldn’t give a satisfactory reply if someone asked me. Perhaps it was that perfectly motiveless act, without reason, which evolved out of nothing, owing its existence to no other occurrence. Perhaps I just wanted to clear the world of literary agents, especially bad ones. There again, let me argue, it could simply have been that I was being particularly creative, creating and acting out what might possibly make an interestingly dramatic scenario. Perhaps it was both. But to a degree it was premeditated, even though I hadn’t thought about it in any great detail.
I returned to the Vraca camp two days later. A few of the men nodded, one even slapped me on the back. That’s about as affectionate as these men can be. No one mentioned Santo. Maybe they don’t know about him yet. I asked one or two people where he was, and they shrugged, indifferent. There was a new man in his bunk, but not in mine, which was strange – as if people sense these things.