The day seemed to have begun perfect. Just looked for a few seconds until the neighbor start hammering the wall that divided the two rooms. Pablo had a terrible habit of waking up in a good mood every day. He always said that to start the day well, had to wake up early. And he really woke up early. Terribly euphoric and full of life, humming, knocking things, opening and closing doors and drawers. Early yawned his window and shouted a loud - Good morning! Looking like a giant rat, gruindo a sound wounded beast. While I was still trying to write something. After so many hours looking for some inspiration and when I think I'll get there. He begins to distribute his excitement for life. A mediocre life, like mine. Leaves the room and went to his door, three knocks on the door. And the guy opened the door with a white and stupid smile.
- Beautiful day Jeux! He said.
Puffing his chest as if to steal all the cool morning air. Needed to finish with the torture.
- Pablo, the number of neighbor 2, died! I said.
- How? No one warned me.
- He died yesterday, and his wife is trying to rest.
The Subject was withering smile, you could see the embarrassment on his face. His color changed as if he was sick.
- How awful. He said.
- You can make less noise? I said.
- Of course, my friend - he said - I did not know.
- All right, but now you know!
I turned and went back to my room, satisfied, I have given a slight twitch on my lips as I distanced. Almost a smile, small, yellow is the expression of victory. Really seemed to be a beautiful day. I went back to the room and wiped the rest of wine that still had the bottle. It was time that I did not feel as satisfied. In the next room got a wake of silence. I thought, - It's perfect!
I went back to the machine, the blank sheet was still looking at me. But I could not write, the silence began to bother. I started thinking about what he could be doing. Maybe he had a heart attack because of the news and is dead. No sound came from the other side of the wall. I supported my elbows on the table and I was a little holding my head in his hands. My conscience began to regret, I raised my head and looked at either side. The silence still persisted. I could not continue in that silence, I took the pen and started drumming on the table, but it was no use. Still wondering why he did not make any noise, not a hawk, a morning cough. That really began to make me very angry. - What idiot doing?
I went back to his bedroom door, and explained that I had been a joke.
- Good! He said, opening that white smile.
- Yes, it was just a joke. I said.
- But today is April 1st?
He thought it was April 1st joke, the guy was always lost. Well I also had no idea of what day it was. Does not matter.
- Not Pablo, today is not April 1st.
- And why did you do that?
- Is that looked wrong in the leaflet.
- Cool! But you are well even inattentive.
- I know! I know!
I returned to the room, and he began to hit the wall and humming. We had our routine saves. My head began to ache. A terrible migraine. I began to fill my ears with cotton plugs. But it was no use. Each time the sound was increasing. I felt like he was banging his direct hammer in my head, and that white smiling good guy, as he hitting the hammer paced and rhythmic way.
Your dumb comments on the possibility that I get some employment. It drove me crazy but, as he could entertain the idea of me becoming another zombie, walking up and down, as some kind. He really had not understood the real needs of a man. Pablo he was a good painter, who painted with professionalism. Had never seen a painting atelier as his room, looked like a hospital, completely aseptic, clean. He knew everything, had the technique, but lacked soul. He worked eight hours a day as a clerk at the corner drugstore. A painter should not work in a pharmacy attendant, he did not use drugs, did not drink, did not smoke. It is probably still a virgin, and spent most of the time watching television. The subject shaved every day and wore clean white shirts. Which the painter can have a piece of clothing out of ink, which was his madness.
My room was already quite different, seemed a conflict zone, where some grenades Aviam been detonated, the chaos was installed in every corner, books, papers, bottles, rest of moldy food, dirty clothes, broken furniture. My furniture, had bought at a brick, as my clothes that also was secondhand, and had nothing to do with fad, despite having joined the current fashion of an unintended way. Deep into my pockets had the fairest justification. There was nothing, and this was the situation. Money was increasingly scarce, had just enough for the wine and bread. I think that's why he thought I was a kind of Christian. But the most amazing in that room had been a mushroom, which appeared on the doorstep leading to the bathroom. One day I looked at the door and there was something growing on the step corner, a crack in the burned cement floor. Every hour he was changing, growing blistering form, to rise to the top as a closed umbrella, which was gradually opening up, and down an income. A beautiful white lace and mushroom. Pablo one day nearly crumpled to the sole of your shoe clean, he had come to bring me a book (The Great Carpenter), a book about the life of Jesus Christ. He knew I liked books, and thought he should read that book. But this never happened, and the book is still in the can rack just below the right foot, to give balance the bookcase. A carpenter balancing a can rack looked like something with a mythical sense. Lost in that dark room.
Three knocks on the door drew my attention from the next room, because people give three knocks on the doors. That lack of identity is all massiveness and standardized. Um, I also give three knocks on the door, that is evil. I went to the door and to my surprise, it was the neighboring room 2.
- Good morning Jeux! She said.
- Good morning Raquel! I said.
- Have you been to the bakery today?
- Not yet, Rachel.
- Do me a favor, I need a liter of milk.
- Of course, after I leave in your room.
- Thank you.
Rachel had something special. She never bothered always discreet. What had happened to her bother me at this hour? I wondered. While wearing my pants. Well, I was already time to go to the bakery same. I always liked to do my shopping early. While the bakery was still deserted, not like queues and not to stay talking, of obligation. There should be a law prohibiting people from opening their mouths when they have nothing interesting to say. But people love to talk and keep talking anything just to articulate their mouths. It is unnecessary to mention that I am not a very social person.
When I entered the bakery Joaquim was packing the bread on the shelf behind the counter. This is another thing about our standardized life, always have a Portuguese in a bakery. I know it's boring and repetitive. How can life be so poor? There I was coming out of my routine, buying a carton of milk, and not know whether to buy skim or whole. Usually people buy skimmed because of health or full because of the taste. Rachel was a woman of taste or health? How could I know?
- And then my friend, ever? Joaquim said.
- I want a box of whole milk and other skim milk box. I said.
- Are you sick Jeux?
Actually I felt kind of sick, but he was not sick. Or was sick? I remembered that early was with migraine. How did he find?
- Joaquim the seer, heheh. I said.
- Just found it odd you buying milk. He replied.
- Ah milk of course - I said - but it's not for me.
- Then the case is worse than I thought. He said and opened a yellowish smile.
- Come Joaquim, I have not got all day.
Get out of the bakery, with the bag. Taking the usual and two milk cartons. The morning was really morning face, was nothing special. The courts still equal to the previous day, the cars with people going to work still going on, the birds were singing. Everything as it should be in a morning. Until the sun was beaming and despicable.
I went into the small hallway where the bedrooms were, lined up like stalls for horses. Dodging hanging clothes in a nylon rope in the middle of the corridor, barely washed clothes and with sweat stink and laundry detergent. I spent the first door and stood in the number 2. Three hits. And Rachel opened the door with a smile. Why are people always with a forced smile. Seems to be a well-mannered code. Everyone has to be always smiling, even inside is falling apart in tears. How many masks are necessary for coexistence. I handed the bag with the milk cartons and went to my room. It had been cruel to the number of the neighboring 4 and kind to the neighbor number 2. I was where it should be, in my favorite place. On the fence between heaven and hell.
I took the bag the bread and wine, tore a good loaf of bread with your hands, and desatarraxei the plastic bottle cap. A piece of bread and a sip of wine, watching the carpenter balance the metal bookcase. God is strange, it makes really wonderful things. And can balance the universe, picking up just for the pie paw. The day had started really wonderful.