A new name jumps out from among his incoming calls: Viola. So who the fuck is this Viola?

All of a sudden, sweet but forbidden features appear in my mind. Two long, well-manicured hands, two slender, agile legs supporting a perfect bottom. Suddenly the woman of his dreams appears before my eyes.

A thin, pungent layer of fear insinuates itself between the folds of my muscles. My mouth contorts and begins to tremble, while my heart thumps harder and harder. The cold of the room mixes with a rare sensation of warmth that makes me sweat and shiver at the same time.

While a series of obscene photographs is filling my mind, dragging me to dark and unexplored places, he opens the door.

TWENTY-FOUR

One is tall and thin, with a burned face and a brown shawl that completely envelops her. She shows me her wrists and they’ve been slashed.

The other is small and blond, with blue eyes, a purple hat, and a purple shawl. She looks like a circus performer. Her legs are stumps.

A mother and a daughter stand hand in hand. The daughter has a white dog that she’s holding by the collar. The little girl’s name is Obelinda and she’s wearing a brown floral blouse buttoned up to the neck. Her mother is almost identical, although her eyes are a different color. They have gassed themselves.

A Turkish couple smile; they look as though they have just emerged from their own wedding. They’re happy and content; the woman’s wearing a pretty pink dress. I saw them smashed against the wall by a car.

When my soul returns to my body, my head is heavy and the first thing I think is: what death do my ghosts think I have died?

TWENTY-FIVE

As we watch a comedy film that doesn’t make us laugh, Thomas tells me a dream he has had.

We are sitting at a sumptuously laid table with a brilliant white tablecloth, and the courses have been arranged in an elegant and orderly fashion. Pouring some red wine into a glass, I clumsily knock it over, making a purple stain that spreads across the white cloth. Then I start crying, saying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He kisses me and tells me it’s nothing, that it could just as easily have happened to him. He demonstrates that he’s equally capable of spilling his wine on the tablecloth and making a stain. But I go on crying, saying it’s all my fault. His stain covers mine and he says, “You see? No one will notice, the whole tablecloth’s dirty now.”

He falls silent and looks at me without speaking.