–4–

Forgive me, but none of what I told you yesterday actually happened. That is, it was only partially true … Up to the vision of the blue stone. How could you have believed that I saw my mother and father having sex? My story was so formulaic, so textbook … From the look of things, you’re an easy girl to fool. Maybe I should devote myself to that from now on — fooling you. It could be my hobby.

Yes, you’re right. Even though I invent certain episodes of my history, their essence is immutable; practically Psychology 101 material … Is that what I wanted to see, deep down? No, not exactly.

What do I make of this attempt to falsify my story? Maybe I want to connect with you. But I don’t want any connections at all. None, you hear me? Well, actually, I do … After all, I agreed to tell you everything that happened, although no one forced me to. What connection might that be? Well, that’s something for you to speculate about in some poorly written article.

I am tetchy, I know. Forgive me. I’m tired. I didn’t sleep a wink last night. I had a strange dream about the blue stone. I bet your eyes lit up when I said ‘dream’. I’m going to satisfy your curiosity, even though our agreement doesn’t cover the present.

I was in a dungeon that, as always happens in dreams, wasn’t a dungeon, but a hospital. I went down a dark corridor which led to a square area lined with iron doors, where I found a child of about six or seven. The child was wearing one of those little suits that boys used to wear when they received their first communion. His expression was a mixture of sadness, resignation, and perplexity. Beside him was a nurse, who gave me a professional smile. In silence, she led the boy by the arm to the nearest door, opened it, and motioned for him to enter. When he’d gone in, she closed the door. At that instant, I realised the boy was me. I now found myself inside the cell he’d been led into. I was horrified by what I saw around me: the walls were lined from top to bottom with bleeding foetuses. It was no longer a dungeon, but a catacomb. I looked away, towards the door. In it was a tiny barred window, through which the nurse was watching me with her typical nurse’s smile. Then she held out a hand through the bars. In it was a blue stone that shone like a fairytale diamond. I woke up right after that, and couldn’t get back to sleep.

This blue stone had already appeared in other dreams. I’ll make your job easier: my father’s eyes were blue. This association was made when it came up in analysis. But, from the look of things, it wasn’t … What do you call it, again? Ah, yes, ‘processed’.’ That’s a stone best left unturned.

Anyway, the truth is that I never saw my parents having sex. My nocturnal terrors and my mother’s daily demonstrations of love for my father, and vice-versa, were enough to feed my weakness. Until the age of nine, I did everything in my power to sabotage the happy couple’s life together. I invented illnesses to keep her away from him at night. I plagued them so much that I managed to play them against one another in arguments about what to do with me. I provoked my father until he threatened to beat me, which earned him sharp scoldings from my mother — and me her affection. Most children use these ruses, I know, but the jealousy and hatred behind them usually remain nebulous. Not in my case, though. I knew I hated my father, and had no remorse about it. I liked it.

When I learned to read, I started using yet another tactic to lash out at the executioner of my childhood illusions and to earn my beloved’s attention: intellectual humiliation. Since my father was pretty useless as far as general knowledge went, I took pleasure in showing my mother how much I’d learned in the history books I was now devouring. My little performance always took place at dinnertime, when the three of us were together. Greek mythology, important events in the history of the Roman Empire, memorable World War II battles. The cue for me to start rolling out my repertoire was always a laconic ‘Dunno’ from my father to something I’d asked him. My mother seemed proud of my erudition because she read widely, and was interested in art and everything else traditionally referred to as the humanities. But my father, to my delight, was unable to hide his discomfort. Little by little, he was also learning to hate me. Proof of this was the torture he put me through when I was seven.