Βιβλία σαν το «Αιχμηρά αντικείμενα»

I lived at number twenty-three Blenheim Road for five years, blissfully happy and utterly wretched. I can’t look at it now. That was my first home. Not my parents’ place, not a flatshare with other students, my first home. I can’t bear to look at it. Well, I can, I do, I want to, I don’t want to, I try not to. Every day I tell myself not to look, and every day I look. I can’t help myself, even though there is nothing I want to see there, even though anything I do see will hurt me.

Όταν βλέπω το πρωτοσέλιδο, το στομάχι μου σφίγγεται. Να την. Είχα ξεχάσει πως η επέτειος είναι σήμερα. Δεν τα πάω τόσο καλά με τον χρόνο. Πάντα χρησιμοποιούν την ίδια φωτογραφία. Τα μάτια της είναι μεγάλα κάτω από το γείσο του καπέλου της, τα δάχτυλά της σφίγγουν το ξυλάκι, λες και φοβάται μην της το πάρουν. Τα μαλλιά της είναι υγρά και γυαλιστερά, κομμένα αγορίστικα. Κολυμπούσε, αλλά κανείς δεν την τυλίγει σε μια χνουδωτή πετσέτα για να τη στεγνώσει. Δεν μου αρέσει αυτό. Μπορεί να κρυώσει. Δεν δημοσιεύουν την άλλη φωτογραφία, τη δική μου. Μπήκαν σε μεγάλες φασαρίες μ’ αυτή. Αν και όχι τόσο μεγάλες, αν θέλετε τη γνώμη μου. Ήταν έξι χρονών.

Κι έτσι κάθεστε στον καναπέ και πηγαίνετε μέχρι την κάμερα μόνο για ν’ αλλάξετε μπαταρίες όταν χρειαστεί». «Κι αν η αρκούδα εμφανιστεί τη νύχτα;» «Η κάμερα έχει φωτισμό LED, κανονικό και black light: Είναι αόρατο φως, για να μη φοβίζει τα ζώα». Φως. Αυτό ήταν που έβλεπε ο ηλικιωμένος. Μια δέσμη φωτός που ερχόταν από τα δεξιά. Χωνόταν μες στο πράσινο νερό και φώτιζε το φόρεμα, και για μια ανατριχιαστική στιγμή τον έκα­ νε να σκεφτεί ότι έβλεπε μπροστά του ένα κορίτσι που είχε ξαναζωντανέψει και χόρευε από τη χαρά του. «Χα! Σαν επιστημονική φαντασία είναι!» Ο γέρος άνοιξε διάπλατα το στόμα του όταν είδε ένα δια­ στημόπλοιο να μπαίνει στην οθόνη.

“There really isn’t an Altair-4, just as there aren’t really any Tommyknockers. There aren’t any nouns for some things - they just are. Somebody pastes one name on those things in one place, somebody pastes on another someplace else. It’s never a very good name, but it doesn’t matter. You came back from New Hampshire talking about Tommyknockers, so here that’s what we are. We’ve been called other things in other places. Altair-4 has, too. It’s just a place where things get stored. Usually not live things. Attics can be cold, dark places.”

They entered an elevator of glass, tinted faintly orange. Lights flickered on and Mae saw her name appear on the walls, along with her high school yearbook photo. Welcome Mae Holland. A sound, something like a gasp, left Mae’s throat. She hadn’t seen that photo in years, and had been happy for its absence. This must have been Annie’s doing, assaulting her with it again. The picture was indeed Mae—her wide mouth, her thin lips, her olive skin, her black hair, but in this photo, more so than in life, her high cheekbones gave her a look of severity, her brown eyes not smiling, only small and cold, ready for war. Since the photo—she was eighteen then, angry and unsure—Mae had gained much-needed weight, her face had softened and curves appeared, curves that brought the attention of men of myriad ages and motives.

"On the other hand," Ellis went on, "I had a forty-two-year-old patient in Stockholm some years ago who banged his head on a windowsill. He began to feel sick immediately and was taken by ambulance to the ER. When I got to him he was unconscious. He had a small bump and a very slight bruise. But he never regained consciousness and died after nine days in intensive care. To this day I have no idea why he died. In the autopsy report, we wrote brain haemorrhage resulting from an accident, but not one of us was satisfied with that assessment. The bleeding was so minor, and located in an area that shouldn’t have affected anything else at all. And yet his liver, kidneys, heart, and lungs shut down one after the other. The older I get, the more I think it’s like a game of roulette.