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 Waiting for a Resolution  (2 ratings)by Fernando Sorrentino Page 2 of 2 But just as I was in the act of delivering the fatal blow, he took to the air
with a speed not devoid of majesty and hurled himself in my face. Screaming
with fear and half out of my mind, I set off in flight through the house. How
quickly he flew, how skillfully he disguised himself against the dark
background, how silent was his persecution, how many the obstacles that
prevented my moving with the speed my perilous situation demanded. I tried to
turn the key in the lock so as to open the door and flee my house forever, but
this simple operation was impossible. The mosquito gave me no time, the key
wouldn't turn, my fingers seized up. I ran, I ran right through the whole
house, I ran unable to put a closed door between him and me. I ran colliding
with furniture, knocking over chairs, breaking vases and mirrors, tearing my
clothes, barking my shins, and stubbing my toes. I ran and ran and ran until,
overcome by exhaustion and terror, I fell to my knees.
"Forgive me! Forgive me!" I cried, my clasped hands raised in an attitude of prayer. "I swear, I swear by everything holyl I'll never try it again!" The mosquito paused and began to revolve in smaller and smaller circles, while 1, weeping torrents, repeated the above and similar expressions. I don't know if he heard me. He seemed to be wondering what to do with me. He had to make an important decision, for which, doubtless, he needed the reflection that only calm and quiet can provide. I, on the other hand, instead of remaining silent, kept whining, gasping, and panting, my clothes drenched with sweat, and, with all this, beginning to notice that the veins of my hands were swollen and blue, almost purple, almost black. The mosquito was thinking, meditating, deliberating. It was clear that he was in no haste to come to a decision he might later regret. He circled and circled, each time more slowly, as if he were going to stop, but the irritating thing was that he did not stop. This state of affairs lasted for more than half an hour, while I (with dejected countenance, eyes full of tears, and trembling from head to foot, awaited his verdict and sentence, which would be delivered at the same time) looked through the window at the blurred shapes of the bricklayers at work on a construction site across the street, thinking that they were enjoying a world of sunshine, fresh air, buckets, and simple bricks, a world where there was no place for a sinister, allpowerful mosquito who was about to deliberate on my,life or death. In the end the mosquito was merciful. With unutterable relief I saw that he was slowly making his way back to the baseboard. He displayed not a trace of selfimportance, but he could be sure that never again would I dare harm him. After this episode, I realized that I must resign myself to my fate, To be honest, he demands very little of me - only his two daily slices of blood pudding and the china dish. I have, nevertheless, one reservation. It upsets me, it wounds me, it humiliates me to be dominated by such a tiny creature, a creature that weighs less than a fraction of an ounce, when I weigh close to a hundred and eighty pounds. At the same time, I don't feel in the least humbled by having to bow to the control of an irrational being - one who has, literally, the brains of a mosquito. Perhaps my resignation is owed to the fact that I have often been bossed about by individuals who haven't the sense of a cat and a great deal less beauty. But just as I have this one reservation, I also have one hope. I know that the life of a mosquito lasts but a few months. This is why each morning I cast a furtive glance at the calendar, waiting for the moment I can circle with my hidden red pencil the date the mosquito expires. On the other hand, tomorrow marks twenty years to the day since he began his reign. Apart from contradicting the laws of nature, the notion that the mosquito may be immortal engulfs me in a dimension of unreality. If the mosquito is not immortal there are two possible ways of accounting for the above facts: The first is that the mosquito has not always been the same one, and that during the night, while I am asleep, the dying mosquito is replaced by a younger, stronger mosquito. I was brought to this supposition one day by coming upon the body of a mosquito at the foot of my diningroom table. To be sure, this is not conclusive evidence. I have no proof that this dead mosquito is the one that holds me in its power. It may have been just a common, everyday mosquito, like the ones so easily brought to heel with fly swatter and insecticide. The second possibility excludes the first. The allpowerful one might be the dead mosquito, and the mosquito besidethe sheep picture a mere usurper with no power whatsoever, whose authority is based on the simple fact of the office he holds and his resemblance to his predecessor. But, since this argument does not explain my twenty years of domination, I must assume that the usurper mosquitoes are many and effect their substitution in an orderly fashion. Anyway, be that as it may, I cannot afford to be entirely convinced of this. It could prove fatal. Meanwhile, as I can do nothing, days, months, and years go by. Growing old, withering away in the grip of my own anxiety, and to this very day dominated by a mosquito, I am still waiting for a resolution.
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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