The day I cough again, it will be to attract St. Ever since then, my ribs have hardly moved, and nowadays my chest just consists of dust and rock. A cough is something that almost sent me to my grave, after I came back from the mines 20 years ago. And I pretend to breathe a sigh of relief. He says I’m well, announcing this with an idiotic smile. He tries to justify himself: The pistol he pointed at me was to measure my fever. He refines his methods, though still in a clumsy way. I’m like them, hospitals I mean, I’m the one who harbors and tends to my own illnesses. It is hospitals that are built far from the poor. She, poor soul, didn’t know that it was the other way round. My late wife used to say it was our fault because we chose to live far from where there were any hospitals. My neighbors died of AIDS, and no one wanted to know about it. Did anyone visit me? My wife died of tuberculosis, did anyone come and see us? Malaria took my only son, and I was the one who buried him. He tells me his bosses are worried because of a serious illness that’s spreading like wildfire.
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He’s a young robber, he doesn’t know how to lie. He looks around, and as he can’t find anything to steal, he eventually explains himself. I understand his enigmatic message, the man thinks that underneath my wretched appearance, there lies hidden a priceless treasure. The man smiles sadly and mumbles: These days one can’t trust anyone, people don’t know what they’re carrying inside them. I ask him to take his mask off, and assure him that he can trust me. His intentions are clear: He doesn’t want to leave any footprints. It’s only then that I notice his shoes are wrapped in some sort of plastic bags. I ask the visitor to lower his pistol and take a seat in the only chair I have left. But it has been so long since I had any company at all that I end up playing his game. But I’m not letting myself be fooled: The cruelest of soldiers always approached me with an angel’s demeanor.
The masked man is softly spoken and has an affable look. To die like this is a sign that God has answered my prayers.
That light on my face is almost a caress. He points the pistol at my face, and I close my eyes, obedient. But it’s a funny-looking weapon: It’s made of white plastic and emits a green light. Frightened robbers are the most dangerous ones. Folks start to age when they look at the ground and see an abyss. I drag my feet, my slippers creaking over the wooden floor. And now, in the eternity of yet another afternoon, someone bombards the door with his feet. I live far away from anyone, war and famine are my only visitors. Well, “knock” is one way of describing it.
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