Issue 23

John Better Armella
Translated by Michelle Mirabella

An army of red ants crosses my path on the way from the living room to the kitchen. Marching in a perfect line, they carry an enormous, shiny cockroach.

From my vantage point at six-foot-two, it all resembles a miniature funeral procession, a sight that doesn’t fail to catch us by surprise or produce that uncomfortable feeling of accidentally stumbling upon a royal procession in the middle of the street.

I follow the small insects’ course until I see them disappear under the refrigerator.

Before going to sleep, I pour my usual glass of water with passionflower. I drink it. I get to my room and throw myself on the bed. I think about these small ceremonies that we seldom witness, and that, without a doubt, are part of those events we call “the passage of time.” Events that for me are just as transcendental as the sunset or a full moon in the sky.

The passionflower starts to take its effect. By now the ants must have dismembered their prey in order to store it in their hiding place. And how could I not also think about waking up every Sunday transformed into a monstrous insect who later gets up and awkwardly stuffs his deformed carapace into the clothes ironed by a woman who looks at him with a growing indifference each passing day.

“I made eggs today,” she says.

“You always make eggs,” I respond in my usual insect language.

Spiderwebs hang from the ceiling. A butterfly flaps around, stuck in one of them. The termite mud tube on the wooden beams supporting the Eternit gutters continues to advance. One day the ceiling will fall.

It’s the passage of time, I tell myself, as a line of black ants attempts to reach a saucer where three sugar cubes rest. My mother used to say that black ants are good luck. In the newspaper, it’s the same old thing. The same abysmal news; the only thing that changes is the model on the center page. “Katia smells like summer,” says the headline. She’s a beautiful woman, the most beautiful I’ve seen in this third-rate paper. There’s a short interview, and Katia says that she likes strawberry ice cream, that her favorite color is royal blue, and that she’s afraid of insects; scaring her one of these days wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

“My doll won’t talk,” says a seven-year-old girl whose face is smeared with chocolate. That’s my daughter, I don’t scare her; by now she’s gotten used to seeing me transformed into an insect every Sunday morning.

“It must be the battery, it’s almost always that. It’s because you spend so much time talking with your doll. Tell me, what do you all talk about so much?”

“The weather, my friend Millie who eats sand, Mom, you.”

“And what do you all say about Mom? Tell me.”

“Stuff …”

“Like what?”

“One time, before going to school, I left Britt (the doll) in Mom’s room. And when I got back, she told me she saw Mom doing strange things.”

“What kind of strange things?”

“She was talking to herself in front of the mirror. Well, she was talking to someone named God or something like that, that’s what she told me.”

“The poor thing must be very unwell.”

“Dad, who is this God?”

“An old man with enormous wings.”

“You mean an insect like you when you get up on Sundays?”

“No, more like a bird.”

“And what does God do?”

“He’s very tired and old to be doing something. I mean, he can barely fly.”

“And where does he live?”

“On the rooftops.”

“At night I hear noises on the roof. Could it be God?”

“It could be, or maybe it’s cats.”

My daughter has grown bored of the chat, and, doll in arms, she says goodbye to me. It’s Sunday; unlike those who say they feel bugged on a day like today, I am quite literally a bug. I have a carapace, wings, a thorax, an abdomen, six legs, and a hard, black head. A dung beetle to be precise. Sometimes I go for a walk around the neighborhood. People have gotten used to seeing me pass by while rolling my enormous ball of dung, which I later deposit in a secret cave. But today I’m not going anywhere; I’ll stay home watching my wife walk to and fro, muttering phrases I don’t understand. However, who knows, the sky appears to be an unusual blue, maybe I’ll feel up for it and leave through the window of this building, spreading my iridescent wings.