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 Waiting for a Resolution  (2 ratings)by Fernando Sorrentino Page 1 of 2 I am in the power of a mosquito. Were he so inclined, he would
probably kill me. Luckily, until now, he has not abused his power. In the
exercise of his sway over me he is moderate, not the least bit capricious, and,
one might even say, constitutional. It must, however, be understood that my
obedience derives not from a recognition of his qualities or virtues but from
the fear he instills in me.
Were he to consider it expedient, he would kill me, and his crime - or execution - would go unpunished. In the event that the legal institutions could prove incontrovertibly that he was the murderer, they would not be able to punish him, not only because of the subsidiary fact that there is no provision in law for this type of offense but also because he would not allow it. To my great good fortune, I have common sense enough to see that he has once and for all dismissed the idea of doing away with me - so long as I give him no cause. He has taken up residence on the wall, near the top of an oil painting that depicts an improbable landscape in which two seemingly Spanish shepherdesses with great big crooks are deep in conversation about some topic or other, surrounded by a flock of mildlooking sheep, one of whose straight back falls in with the line of the horizon in an unpleasing way. There is an abundance of topographical detail: a green plain, two purple mountains crowned with white, and a blue river that empties into a grayish lake. I know next to nothing about fine art, but this picture has always seemed to me to lack all aesthetic value. The mosquito, however, appears to have no interest in aesthetic values or, for that matter, in any other sort of value. At least he has never shown either approval or disapproval. He prefers to fill his time with other activities. In the morning he enjoys an examination of the house, perhaps without set purpose. But the fact is that, from the dining room, where he has established his seat of office, he goes first to the kitchen, where apparently - but doubtless it's my imagination - he takes a special interest in the sparkle of a small saucepan with a long black handle. Sometimes I wonder what attracts him about such an utterly vapid object, but then I reason that when all is said and done he is only a mosquito. It's in the kitchen that he spends most of his time. Later he wanders through the hall, the bedroom, and the spare room, never lingering noticeably anywhere special. I think his aim is less to supervise the running of the house than to affirm his authority over his domains. At midday - on the dot of halfpast twelve, to be precise - he lunches. His diet varies little. Every day he dines on a slice of Spanish blood pudding, which I serve him on a little china dish (he won't consider any other). I still remember the day he indignantly rejected a slice of Argentine blood pudding which, in my desire to please, I served him so as to curry favor. I had to rush out to the butcher's for his favorite and exclusive dish. As soon as I've left his meal on the table, I have to withdraw, since he doesn't like anyone there when he's eating. I am not altogether without wit, and occasionally - when I have nothing more important to attend to - I spy on him through the keyhole. In point of fact, this is a rather foolish thing to do, for I have to admit there is nothing especially remarkable in what I see. The moment the mosquito is certain that I have left the dining room, he descends in the unhurried manner that accords with his position and alights on the china dish. Then he sti cks his snout into the pudding and slowly and eagerly sips the blood (disdaining, paradoxically, the bits of nut that distinguish Spanish blood pudding from Argentine). No part of this activity differentiates him from any other mosquito in the world. Lunch usually takes two or three minutes. (Actually, I lied when I said that I watch him only when I have nothing more urgent to do. The truth is that I spy on him every day. It is a source of fascination to glimpse into the private lives of those in power.) Once he has satisfied his hunger, he is overcome by lassitude and heaviness and, apparently, canriot return to his residence beside the sheep picture. At this point he prefers a bit of a nap on the baseboard at exactly the spot where the paint has begun to flake. He wakes up at around five, making no further sorties through the house at this time. He sites himself beside the picture and stays there until dinner. With regard to these details, I assumed - wrongly - that my precise knowledge of his daily habits would prove useful in ridding myself of him. I tried it only once; it turned out so badly I never dared try again. Events - it shames me even now to remember them - transpired in the following way: On that occasion it seemed to me that his lunch had lasted longer than usual and that the mosquito was particularly bloated. I slipped off my shoes and, arming myself with one of them, approached as noiselessly as possible, my heart in my mouth, until I stood over the baseboard where he slept or pretended to sleep. Blinded momentarily by arrogance, I honestly believed I could easily crush him against the wood of the baseboard with my shoe. Copyright © 1999, 2000, 2001 Fernando Sorrentino, sffworld.com. All rights reserved. No part of this may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the author. The author has submitted the work in accordance with and in agreement with the following Submission Guidelines. |
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