Goes up Juan Acosta, up goes down Juan Acosta down goes down Juan Acosta
down by the staircase of the house of 573 doors, upper and upper, step by step:
coming from the Hell of the office and the street at 4:45 PM Juan Acosta is at home again
the key turns in the keyhole and Acosta enters passing through his door, Nº 550 out of 573
enters Acosta, and redirects his rubber-y steps toward his kitchen
the table is overwhelmed with comics: "Don Fulgencio", "Avivato", "Cicuta", "El otro yo del Dr. Merengue", "Egoisto":
9 minutes later, tasting a smoky omelette or tortilla de patatas con cebolla, Acosta reads the yellowal page and laughs
his laughter is horrible and stupid.
Espantosa.
Somebody walks by the corridors, out in the hall
the hall of the house of 573 doors.
Acosta doesn't hear the step
step of stranger through an other people's hall:
ensimismado, en sí mismo, J. Acosta fills a large glass with fresh milk, without taking his eye out of the prepubescent vignettes of the magazine:
a short or long while later, one day like any other, when the brim of the empty glass is drops of milk and the plate with cookies is crumbs, still early, Juan Acosta goes to bed, at 6:00 PM.
Acosta will sleep 12 hours, like a child. 12 long hours of simulation of the death:
and Juan Acosta falls asleep easily with the air of the old fashioned and metallic ventilator hitting on his face, because it's July
many hours later, in the middle of his sleep, in the very centre of his slumber, at the torrid midnight, paces sound muffled out in the corridor
steps. In the house of 573 doors
steps ascending by the staircase. Stopping.
Ascending. Never disappearing completely
with the pulsatile loathing of the abhorred and diffuse things.
Madrid is a dry city, dry.
Its annual rainy days are few, a curious fact which strikes me like an intríngulis
how a city can have less than 100 rainy days a year?
a dry and angular city made of metal and glass whose contrast between the 3 infernal months of summer and the 9 gelid months of winter is atrocious and insupportable:
Juan Acosta wakes up at 6:00 AM, on the alarm clock radio starts sounding Radio 5 Noticias, for a good morning full of depressive news read with cynical aplomb:
8 minutes later Juan Acosta washes his teeth in the shower, in the room the ventilator still is working, exhausted and overheated.
Before going to the streets, which already are an oven, Acosta hurries a long sip of café de achicoria "La Maestra", crunching a toast of pan Condat anointed with margerine:
catching his small case Acosta runs to the staircase; his forehead is already sweating while his eyes scintillate with nervousness, because he has to be at 7:15 o'clock at the office
3 minutes and 34 seconds later Acosta submerses himself into the metro station, running on the escalator like a demented, like an enano:
his tongue, like a flexible and soft shovel, excavates the last residues of toast and margerine still fixed in his dentary interstices and the palatal cavity.
Two eyes observe him getting into the subterranean vehicle.
Goes up Juan Acosta, up goes down Juan Acosta down goes down Juan Acosta
down by the staircase of the house of 573 doors, upper and upper, step by step:
coming from the Hell of the office and the street at 4:45 PM, the oven of the Madrilenian sidewalks, hotter than Aldo Bonzi in January
Juan Acosta is at home again, and he makes the key dance, fuck the keyhole with a rhythmical, imbecilic movement:
entering, Acosta takes a look at the hall of his house with his humid and protruding eyeballs, like two boiled eggs... marching toward the kitchen, Juan Acosta extracts carefully a piece of solidified rheum from the corner of his left eye and opens the fridge, taking the plate with the remaining portions of omelette, and deposits the manjar into the microwave:
just a touch of 23 seconds, otherwise it starts screeching under the ardor of the microondas and gets scorched.
Today Acosta is not in the mood to read comics, so he just turns on the radio tuning Radio 3:
a strange and syncopated tonadilla starts emanating through the speakers, it sounds like a boogie-woogie, or perhaps a surf-rock a Billy.
The crazed and modern rhythm distracts the ear of Acosta, who follows the loud and steady beat of the synthetic drum with his feet:
meanwhile, somebody walks by the corridors, out in the hall
the hall of the house of 573 doors.
Acosta doesn't hear the step
step of stranger through an other people's hall
and after the madness of the music, and the delicious omelette, Acosta degusts a Toddy with vainillas Capri, and burping goes to sleep, because it's 5:59 PM, and he needs to sleep 12 hours, like a párvulo:
later, but much later, in the centre, in the real vagina of his sleep, at midnight... steps
paces will sound on the floor of the hall
steps. In the house of 573 doors
steps ascending by the staircase. Stopping.
Ascending. Never disappearing completely
with the pulsatile loathing of the abhorred and diffuse things.
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