enrique marty

 

Dear Domingo,


In your previous letter you asked me to tell you the reasons why I stored my cousin in your warehouse.


I stored up my cousin there for three dreams he had and told me about.


First dream:


One afternoon, my cousin was showing his new house in La Coruña to some friends. As they were looking at the great views from the window, they saw a black, dense whirlwind approaching the house and destroying the city as it passed. Terrified, they tried to escape but my cousin suggested that they lay on the floor of the corridor, which, inexplicably, at the time seemed to him to be the safest place in the house. They all obeyed him (when you are in someone else's house you tend to obey).


They felt a little safer in the darkness of the corridor, but the noise coming from the outside was spine-chilling and they were all shivering, terrified. The only light came from a door in the back where suddenly a back-lit silhouette appeared and began to run angrily towards them with a scream that mixed with the even louder sound of the destruction from the outside. When the attacker was closer, my cousin recognised his father, who jumped over all the others and fell directly on him, biting his neck and drinking his blood with huge, sharp teeth.


Second dream


My cousin is in a park at night taking self-portraits with a small compact camera on a tripod. Nearby, a girl in a polka-dot dress is playing with a hula hoop. Two policemen show up and all of a sudden my cousin remembers that there is an all-out ban on taking pictures in the park. He manages to get to safety behind the bushes and leaves the camera on his tripod, but then remembers that the camera is full of pictures of his own face and that this constitutes irrefutable proof of his crime. At this point, the girl in the hula hoop grabs the camera and takes it to my cousin's hideout. "Here, you left your camera behind!", she says with a big smile that reveals shiny, sharp teeth.



Third dream


In a crowded train, a short guy with a belly and a bushy beard stands up and laboriously pulls a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste out of his luggage. Another guy who has just entered the carriage scans him contemptuously from top to toe as he takes off his blue coat. My cousin stares at the man in the blue coat, hating him. He thinks he is a snob, a jerk, and looks around for the man with the toothbrush who is just coming out of the toilet and who looks at my cousin with complicity and a huge smile full of incredibly long, sharp teeth.


PS. Instinct


I had just arrived in Torino, at night, under a torrential rain. I decided to spend the time I had left before dinner searching for the exact place where Nietzsche collapsed.

I walked to Piazza Castello and quickly found the place, the corner of the arches. Yes, it was unmistakable: a trace. Under the arcades of the square I saw his fuzzy shadow embracing the horse, crying.

The following night I decided to visit his house on Via Carlo Alberto No. 6. He was at the window looking out onto the street. He saw me staring at him and he beamed, showing his overly sharp teeth.


Enrique Marty.


· Storage (2001)

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