TE19 Iberian Adventure

José Luís Peixoto

against wood. He did not find that strange. José lived close to the ground; the building entrance was a short distance from his front door. Convinced he was about to meet the mailman, he yanked the knob in a single movement, bearing a chosen countenance and a readied reproof, but before he opened his mouth one of the men threw his hand at José’s neck and pushed him inside, lifted him into the air, toe-tips touching the floor, a ballerina careless of graciousness; the other followed them in and closed the door. Detained in the tight hand, the outstretched arm, José knew not what tosayorwhat todo, even thoughhewould not beable toutter a peep with his throat thus girdled and, for the same reason, had no authority to any motion. You know who sent us? The punch to his spleen after the question would alone have sufficed for José. He did not collapse to his knees because he was suspended by the neck. Perhaps the man was left-handed if he punched with such brawn with his left, but that being the case, the competence with which he strangled with the right was impressive. In any case, he was sure to have more anger in one arm—either one—than did José in his entire skeleton.

~

Shriveling his face to summon the remembrance, José could only make out snippets, incomplete moments that passed by too fast, without a beginning, starting at themiddle, without end, finished in the air, suddenly. Perhaps anguish cut instants at random. Even

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