–1–

The day I killed my father was a bright day, although the light was hazy, without shadows or contours. Or perhaps it was grey, that shade of grey which even tinges souls that are not usually inclined to melancholy. It’s strange that this is the only detail I don’t remember; all the others are still vivid. But why does it matter? The frame, that’s all it was — the frame. Why try to jolt nature out of its indifference towards us humans? So, let’s get to the facts. I killed my father as one would an insect. No, this image is false, since there’s usually irritation, if not fear, in such a pedestrian act. I digress — forgive me. It would be more precise to say that I killed my father as one breathes. Steady breathing, that is, requiring no great effort to get air to the lungs.

It was with a blow to the back of his neck and another to the top of his head. He was sitting on his living-room sofa reading the paper as he did every morning before going to the club, where he would swim fifteen hundred metres in forty minutes. An athletic man, my father always sported a tan — the tan of the rich, one of the outward signs of his prosperity. I snuck up from behind, my footsteps muffled by the shaggy carpet. With the first blow his torso shot forward, like someone leaning over to tie his shoelaces. Folded over himself, he received the second blow — the chrism that confirms the baptism. The trickle of blood running from the corner of his mouth; his right hand trembling for seconds before coming to rest, inert, on the ground; the look of fright frozen on his face … Is my description of the scene satisfactory? I hope it hasn’t been too unpleasant; that wasn’t my intention.

I leaned the piece of wood against the back of the sofa with a care I now recognise as inordinate (as if the wood were a ritualistic object). I walked around the sofa and, before putting my father back on it, caught sight of the page he’d been reading before he died. It was the adult personals. What had he been dreaming of in his last moment? Aline, the sex kitten with honeyed lips? Milena, the naughty girl who was up for anything? Or the sadistic cousins, who promised to do everything twice? I know I could have omitted this part, but knowing he was interested in ads for prostitutes lends him an endearing humanity. I said ‘humanity’, but ‘weakness’ would be more fitting. He was known — respected, in fact — for his power of seduction. My father, until the end I decreed him, had shown he was capable of enchanting women of any age and from any walk of life. It was impossible to imagine him having to pay to go to bed with one. Women — every one he’d had — were crazy about him. Prostitutes are for men like me. Used to be.

I laid my father’s body on the sofa and sat on its edge, near his head. I don’t know how long I stayed there staring at him, but it was long enough for me to memorise every furrow in his face. When I closed his bulging eyes, his look of fright gave way to a smile. But that may have been my imagination.

Then I called the police. ‘Come and arrest me,’ I said. ‘I’ve killed my father.’