E was a secondary character in our lives. And we were secondary characters in a larger story. A series of elements—ghosts, faith in the Great Carpenter, my early vocation, the times we were living in—could have crossed paths and then continued on their way, but instead they collided head-on.
It all unfolded like this:
Our work hours were strict, and at nine in the evening we had to be indoors, preferably at home. That day we’d come home at six o’clock.
The telephone sounded. It was E. He needed D to go pick him up, and he needed me to go with D. He had found the ghosts, he had photographed them, and this time it was more important than ever that he make it back to the city without raising any suspicions.
The basic argument—which nobody said, but we all understood—was roughly the same one S had used, so I will fall back on his language: pulling over one sonofabitch is not the same as pulling over two sonsofbitches who have a young girl in the back seat.
D’s code of honor could, in exceptional cases, be extended to individuals outside the family of traveling salesmen. So, considering that E let him into the cinema free of charge whenever D wanted, and making the most of the fact that my mother wasn’t home yet, he decided we would help him. It was seven o’clock. The town was an hour’s drive away. At nine o’clock on the dot we would be back.
I would like to recall that, on that trip specifically, we talked about something important as we headed down the highway, but I don’t.
We arrived, and E was waiting for us.
When I greeted him, I asked if he’d found the ghosts, but he didn’t say anything, only took my hand and squeezed it a moment.
D looked at his watch and suggested that E lie down on the back seat, so I got into the passenger seat once more.
We were leaving the town when a car blocked our way. Two men got out.
We didn’t try to hide E, as it would have been impossible. Nor did I try any of my theatrical ploys, because the little experience I had was enough for me to know that, this time, I was in the middle of a real drama.
Placing my trust in our talent—and in the theory of compassion—would have been ingenuous, so the best I could do, and what I did, was stay still in my seat.
D and E got out of the car and moved away, escorted by the two men.
Minutes went by without them returning, so I got out of the Renault and went back to the town square.
The town seemed like a desert, so I sat beneath a tree—a mulberry—and pulled a cigarette out of my bag.
The smoke rings rose and, on watching them dissipate, I had the second epiphany of my life. I shrank and was borne away on one of my smoke rings.
On that privileged night journey I saw how the stars amassed heat and: POOF! appeared. Millenia went by, they consumed their last reserves of hydrogen, and POOF! they dissolved.
The view of the stars blended with that of the tacks, which, even though they were made of stainless steel, didn’t escape the cycle of dissolution (POOF! POOF! POOF! POOF!).
Swinging from my smoke ring, I got a privileged view of things.
And it was while I was experiencing this clarity of mind that I heard a hoarse voice shout:
“Let’s see if you’ll still feel like digging up bones when you’re in hell, you fucking dog.”