She comes to us sometimes late at night (or early in the morning), Elisa, climbs into our bed without so much as a whisper and settles down softly in between us. She moves with the inviolable elegance of a Siamese cat and never seems to notice much of the worried world around her. Occasionally she wants to be caressed, that's when she comes to us, dressed in silver and a translucent skin that smells of freshly cut green apples.
The other two - I call
them Tom and Daisy - are reckless people, so unlike our quiet little
pet. They left for Marseille a couple of days ago and took with them
that urgent sense of nausea they produce by citing Lenin while counting
their piles of digitalized money. The more I learn about them the less I
want to know who they are, Henry tells me they became what they are
together and I'm sure he's right.
We're continuously making new
plans while changing or abandoning the old. His latest idea is to steal a
car and drive north, away from the coast and the tourists. "I'm sick of
the ocean" he says, "I never thought I'd feel that way but I do. I