That first time I turned around full of indignation (I become
terribly annoyed when I'm bothered while reading the paper); he went right
on, calmly hitting me. I asked him if he were mad. He seemed not to hear
me. I then threatened to call a policeman. Completely unruffled, he went
on with what he was doing. After a few moments of hesitation - and seeing
he was not about to back down- I stood up and gave him a terrific punch
in the face. No doubt he is a weak man: I know that despite the force generated
by my rage I do not hit all that hard. Still, breathing a tiny moan- the
man fell to the ground. At once, making what seemed to be a great effort,
he got up and again began hitting me over the head with the umbrella. His
nose was bleeding, and I don't know why but at that moment I felt sorry
for him, and my conscience troubled me for having struck him that way.
Because, after all, the man was not hitting me very hard; he was really
striking me quite soft and completely painless blows. Of course, such blows
are terribly annoying. Everyone knows that when a fly settles on a person's
forehead a person feels no pain; he feels annoyed. Well, that umbrella
was a huge fly which, at regular intervals, kept settling on my head. Or,
to be more precise, a fly the size of a bat.
At any rate, I could not stand that bat. Convinced that I was in the
presence of lunatic, I tried to get away. But the man followed me, in silence,
without once letting up his blows. At this juncture, I began running (I
may as well point out right here that there are few people as fast as I
am). He set out after me, trying without luck to get in a whack or two.
The man was gasping and gasping and panting so hard I thought if I kept
him running like that my tormentor might sink dead on the spot.
For that reason I slowed to a walk. I looked at him. His face registered
neither gratitude nor reproach. He just kept hitting me over the head
with his umbrella. I thought of making my way to a police station
and saying, "Officer, this man is hitting me over the head with an
umbrella." It would have been unprecedented. The policeman would have
stared at me suspiciously, asked for my papers, and begun questioning
me with embarrassing questions. Probably he would have ended up arresting
me.
I thought I'd best go home. I got onto the Number 67 bus. Not once
letting up with his umbrella, the man got on behind me. I took the
first seat. He stationed himself beside me, holding on to the strap
with his left hand while with his right he kept swinging at me with
his umbrella, implacable. The passengers began to exchange shy smiles.
The driver was watching us in his mirror. Little by little, a fit
of laughter, a growing convulsion, seized all the other riders. I
was on fire with shame. My persecutor, completely unaffected by the
uproar, went on hitting me.
I got off - we got off- at the Puente Pac'fico. We continued on
down Santa Fe Avenue. Everyone foolishly turned around to stare at us.
I felt like saying to them, "What are you staring at, you idiots? Haven't
you ever seen anyone whacking a man on the head with an umbrella before?"
But it also occurred to me that they probably hadn't. Five or six kids
began to follow us, shouting like a pack of wild Indians.
But I had a plan. Arriving home, I tried slamming the door in his face.
I didn't manage it. With a firm hand - anticipating me- he grabbed the handle,
there was a momentary struggle, and he entered with me.
Since then, he has continued hitting me on the head with his umbrella.
As far as I know, he has never slept or had a bite to eat. All he does
is hit me. He accompanies me in all my acts - even the most intimate ones.
I remember, in the beginning, that the blows kept me from sleeping; I now
believe it would be impossible to sleep without them.
Nevertheless, our relations have not always been good. Countless times,
in all possible tones, I have asked him for an explanation. It's never
been any use; in his quiet way he has gone on whacking me over the head
with the umbrella. On several occasions, I have dealt him punches, kicks,
and - God help me!- even umbrella blows. He took these things meekly, as
though they were all in a day's work. And this is exactly what is scariest
about him: his quiet determination, his absence of hatred. In short, his
inner conviction of carrying out a secret and superior mission.
Despite his apparent lack of physiological needs, I know when I hit
him he feels the pain, I know he's weak, I know he's mortal. I also know
a single shot would free me of him. What I don't know is whether when we're
both dead he will go on hitting me on the head with his umbrella. Neither
do I know whether the shot ought to be aimed at him or at me. In any case,
this reasoning is pointless. I know full well I wouldn't dare kill either
him or myself.
On the other hand, it recently occurred to me that I could not live
without his blows. More and more frequently now I have a horrible premonition.
I am distressed - deeply distressed- to think that perhaps when I most need
him, this man will go away and I will no longer feel those soft blows of
his umbrella that help me sleep so soundly.
