My plan was to wait for my coffee, dissolve the drug in it and swallow it. Until then, since I had not completely forgotten my Roman history, I remembered that Cato, before he killed himself, read and reread a book by Plato.* I didn’t have Plato by me; but an abridged volume of Plutarch in which the life of the famous Roman was told was enough to occupy that short space of time, and, so as to imitate him completely, I stretched out on the sofa. Nor was it merely to imitate him to this extent; I needed to instill some of his courage in myself, just as he had needed some of the philosopher’s thoughts, to die so fearlessly. One of the disadvantages of being ignorant is that one does not have such remedies to hand at the final hour. There are many people who kill themselves without it, and expire with dignity; but I think that many more people would put an end to their days, if they could find this kind of moral cocaine in good books. Nonetheless, wishing to avoid any suspicion of imitation, I remember well that, so that Plutarch’s book should not be found next to me, and news of it should not be given out in the papers along with the color of the trousers I was wearing at the time, I decided to put it back in its place before I drank the poison.
The servant brought the coffee. I got up, put the book away, and went to the table where the cup had been placed. There were already noises from the house; it was time to do away with myself. My hand shook as I opened the paper containing the drug. Even so I had the strength to pour the substance into the cup, and began to stir the coffee, with my eyes dim, thinking back to the innocent Desdemona; the spectacle of the previous evening intruded into the morning’s reality. But Escobar’s photograph gave me the courage that was beginning to falter; there he was with his hand on the back of the chair, looking into the distance …
“Let’s be done with this,” I thought.
When I was about to drink, I wondered if it would not be better to wait for Capitu and her son to go out to mass; I would drink it afterwards; that would be better. When I had decided this, I began to pace up and down my study. I heard Ezequiel’s voice in the hall, and saw him come in and run to me shouting:
“Papa! Papa!”
Reader, at this point there was a gesture that I won’t describe because I’ve completely forgotten it, but believe me that it was beautiful and tragic. For the figure of the boy made me retreat until I backed into the bookcase. Ezequiel hugged my knees, stood up on the tips of his toes, as if to climb up and give me his usual kiss; and he repeated, tugging at me:
“Papa! Papa!”