But it’s not exactly that, no — not a bad mood. No. Tomatis, who is facing south, as I was saying, directly toward the city center in fact, and in spite of the passing cars, of the people coming and going, of the morning sun — because it is, as I was saying just now, the morning — of the uneven and shifting excess of the observable, to use just one of its possible names, has been, since he awoke in bed, in a troubled and painful state, externally manifested by a wrinkled shirt, stained pants, and a three-day-old beard, along with an absent and preoccupied expression. Since he woke up, reality has threatened him — reality, no? another name, and one of the most unfortunate possible for it, and which could imply, because of its obstinate opacity, menace and danger. Once in a while that buildup of danger visits him and covers, darkening without exception, everything. The day before he was fine, in line with himself and the world, and though the day passed without particular incident, he, Tomatis, no? also spent it without divergence, well-formed to its mold, strictly at pace with his actions and indistinguishable from each of them, waking up, going to work, eating, neutral memories and calm plans, conversations, a walk on the waterfront in the afternoon, taking advantage of the weather, and after dinner some reading by lamplight, on the terrace — a full, consistent spring day, without accident, with its mild tint of permanence, of continuity, of unequivocal and complete existence, one of those days that, with its smooth and monotonous regularity, must have given birth to the idea of eternity. Around midnight, without variation, he had gone to bed, and he, Tomatis, who from time to time, and for weeks, had suffered insomnia, manifested with increasingly desperate tossing in bed until he was, as they say, surprised by the dawn, had, the night before, fallen asleep immediately, without dreaming, sleeping so peacefully that when he woke up the next morning the first thing he noticed was that the bed, with him well-encased between the two sheets, was almost perfectly made, as if he had just gone to bed. Nevertheless, at the same moment, unexpectedly, the menace, indefinite and darkening, like in the past, had already installed itself. Right away, things shipwreck against it — or rather, the Thing, the universe, no? and if you like, another way of referring to it, what there is or what is happening or where it is or where it’s happening, or both at once, as if he were passing through zones, through regions, helpless and blind, just a creature, not an individual or a character or a person, troublesome, as they say, and mortal more than anything, wallowing in the empirical until the unimaginable shock of the blackout. And Tomatis, uncertain, indecisive, waits, through the day laced with danger, to receive a blow from he’s not sure where, nor of course why, his mind somewhat dirty, like a half-buried glass, covered, you could say, in dried ash and, if you like, full of constituent bubbles and knots that deform what you see. There he is now, sucking the cigarette anxiously, too quickly, absently biting his upper lip, lost to the bright turmoil thickening to the south on the central avenue. From the opposite sidewalk, as they approach, Leto and the Mathematician experience the same tenuous euphoria produced at any unexpected encounter with someone whose company is pleasurable, observing Tomatis’s morose posture, his shoulders slumped, his contracted stillness disturbed every so often by awkward and uncoordinated, as they say, movements of his arm or head. When they are even with Tomatis, they stop at the edge of the sidewalk, calling him between the cars, and they have to whistle, click, and shout two or three times before pulling him from his distraction, but when he finally hears them, and sees them shouting and gesturing on the opposite sidewalk after searching various points on the street with a murky and uncertain gaze, a wide smile, without any artificial doubt, where traces of anxiety still persist, spreads across his unhappy face. Tomatis approaches the cable guardrail as well and, laughing and shaking his head, shouts something incomprehensible in the Mathematician’s direction.
— Eh? says the Mathematician, leaning a little toward the opposite sidewalk in order to hear him better, and when Tomatis speaks again, raising his voice some, the sound of a scooter accelerating between the two rows of cars drowns out his words again. The Mathematician makes exaggerated faces, trying to hear, shakes his head several times without stopping his laughter, to demonstrate his annoyance, and then, repeating a gesture to Tomatis that indicates he should wait, steps into the street and, quickly moving around the slowly passing cars, starts to cross. More carefully, Leto, whom the Mathematician seems to have forgotten completely, resigns himself to following, lagging a few meters behind and thinking, as he approaches Tomatis and the Mathematician on the opposite sidewalk, amazed at the contrast their external features present: With the way they dress each makes a fiction out of his body.
There they are, in fact, hugging, on the sidewalk, patting each other on the shoulders, on their backs, their arms: the Mathematician, dressed completely in white, including the, etc., etc., no? as I was saying, and Tomatis, his dark messy hair, his three-day-old beard, the shirt and pants he would have changed this morning, after having shaved and taken a warm shower, if the menace, occupying Everything — which could go by another name, no? — had not been ravaging every one of his movements, even the most mundane, needs, tastes, and senses: If no matter what I’m going to. . and sooner or later the whole universe is going to. . what goddamned reason is there to shower and change your pants, he thinks, with tiny depressed shivers more so than with clear images or words, abandoning himself, with black fingernails and dirty feet, to a foreseen decomposition. Separating himself from the Mathematician, Tomatis aims a severe and at the same time jesting look at Leto.
— You’re everywhere these days, he says. And then, to the Mathematician, alluding to the shouts a few moments before, No, I was asking if that tan came from the Costa Azul.
— Partly, responds the Mathematician modestly.
— And so? Tomatis asks. Where do the European girls grow it?
— Some in each armpit, says the Mathematician.
— No way!
— I swear, says the Mathematician. May you drop dead right here.
— Wow, Mathematician! Tomatis says with distracted admiration. Some strange thought crosses his mind and he is silent for a few seconds, looking bleakly at the ember on his cigarette, then turns toward Leto. How’s things?
— Things are good. I’m only so-so, Leto says.
Tomatis laughs.
— What subtle humor, he says. And to the Mathematician, Is there such subtle humor in Europe?
— There is, there is, the Mathematician answers, confirming his assertion with a solemn movement of his head.
— A sigh of relief, says Tomatis.
And so on, ultimately, more or less. Leto and the Mathematician have registered, as they say, his abrupt change in attitude, each in his own way and both convinced fundamentally of being the only one to notice, as opposed to Tomatis, who apparently does not seem to have caught on and continues to act in a way that reveals, under his witty euphoria, the depression and murky confusion pasted to the back of his easy laughter and clever turns of phrase. The contrast between the absent and anxious expression they came upon on the opposite sidewalk and his current lightheartedness, so sudden and mechanical, produces a certain discomfort in Leto and the Mathematician, as though there were something obscene and shameful in Tomatis’s sudden masquerade, while Tomatis, unaware of those impressions and persisting with his mundane rhetoric, raises his face, darkened by his beard, toward the Mathematician: No, jokes aside, how did it go in Europe? The Mathematician hesitates. A feeling of shame and irritation holds him back a few seconds in the face of Tomatis’s compulsive lightheartedness — he would prefer, it’s true, for Tomatis, having been surprised in the middle of an internal disturbance, to show less duplicity or more transparency, conforming his behavior to his real state of mind, but at the same time he tells himself — the Mathematician, no? — that maybe there’s some pride at work similar to what makes him hide, with meticulous precaution, the evidence of The Incident, and Leto who, without the Mathematician suspecting, is feeling the same things, reaches the same conclusion at practically the same moment: So much happiness to see us shows more mistrust than love. All of this of course without words or precise images and, of course, more or less.