I am in a square room, turned wood and bright, solid furniture old, with benches along the walls and, within it, framed ads that talk about fabric stores, dry cleaners or hairdressers. Observed that lack an ad, some unscrupulous start it has had its frame. The feeling is desazonante, because it is clear that, even if I wanted, I could never read all of the attractive advertisements of this room now slowly begins to rise into the air. I'm in the Santa Justa elevator, and I know what awaits me when you finish the climb. I will be in a big balcony with a splendid view of blue sky that surrounds the lower town, a view that does not reach all (in this case all the Baixa) because it is a partially obstructed by a metal grid that extends the balcony railing to a height that makes it impossible (and I think that for me) the suicides of those who, as is so common here in Lisbon, feel the temptation of jump.
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| Views from the viewpoint of Santa Luzia |
But not jump into the void, friend Horatio. Let me invade any tendency to recover the child, all this nostalgia for a past that as I get closer to the viewpoint of Santa Luzia, I notice that I reconciling with the present, to the point that I have the impression of not being back in time, but almost eliminate it. I'll sit and wait, there will be a chair for me in this city, and she can see me every evening, quietly, practicing nostalgia, eyes on the horizon, waiting for death has already drawn in my eyes and that serious and quiet will wait as long as it takes, sitting at the infinite blue of Lisbon, knowing that death suits the light of severe sadness expected.
extracts Suicide copies of Enrique Vila-Matas
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