I brought you home with me when you recovered. We were never apart. When the Darkness you opened took my fingers, I could never again be inside you. I could only watch. Two more times. And that was all. And now the Darkness takes me: it eats my entrails first and there is no pain and I have time to think and try to see your eyes, but now they’re too far away, you’re far away now, and I ask the Darkness for compassion because now I hear it for the first time ever.

Compassion. And when the Darkness takes another bite and I smell its glee mixed with the scent of my blood, while I watch as it eats my hands, my shoulders, attacks my side, I remember how you told me once that the Darkness doesn’t understand, that it has no language, that it’s a savage or too-distant god. Will I be remembered as the man who found the medium and saved him more than once? Will they write about me, will my name be uttered in admiration? I must not think of my glory. Let it be secret if it must. I will stop pleading for compassion. There are no words from this world for the entrance into the Darkness, no words for the last bite.

III

The Bad Thing About Empty Houses

Buenos Aires, 1985–1986

I had very few years and I was already

firmly old

ELENA ANNÍBALI, The House of Fog

Gaspar opened the window and felt the cold, wet drizzle on his skin. It was Saturday afternoon: the neighborhood bike shop would be open by now. He needed to bring his bike in to be fixed: he’d broken the chain and some spokes in a dumb accident that morning, when he’d clipped the curb on the corner by his house. He liked to ride very fast, especially on Saturdays, early, when the streets were empty. He had barely hurt himself, just a few scrapes on his elbows and knees, a scratched cheek.

He tried to leave the house quietly so he wouldn’t wake his father, but he was surprised to see him already awake, serious but serene, coming from the kitchen with a cup of tea. As always, there were no electric lights on in the house, only the TV in the living room, which was empty but for the yellow corduroy sofa that was so big it was practically a bed. When Juan saw Gaspar, he went over to him and switched on a small lamp on the floor. His other hand held a cigarette.

“You shouldn’t smoke,” said Gaspar.

“Don’t bust my balls.” Juan took Gaspar’s chin in his fingertips to get a look at the fresh scrape. Then he knelt down to inspect his pants, stained with grease from the bike chain.

“I fell.”

“Don’t lie to me. That’s your first warning.”