Blind Man’s Bluff

I like walking through the empty city at night. It is a pleasure to go around without anybody bumping into me, without racing cars or loud noises that get on my nerves. I feel like the king of the silent metropolis, anarchic, uninhabited, imperturbable.

As I walk along the dusky streets, I try to guess the hidden way, hardly illuminated by the faint light in the corner and the end of my burning cigarette. It reminds me of those unforgettable moments of my childhood, when I played the blind man’s bluff with the kids in the neighborhood and they laughed at my inability to find them in the dark. Poor fool, good-for-nothing, they told me, taking advantage of the fact that I was the youngest and most naive in the group.

They were right to some extent, because while they made progress and managed to buy the luxurious mansions that decorate the avenue, I still live in the old little house that used to be my mother’s. That must be the reason why I like visiting them once in a while, to play with their things, as they sleep.

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The Visitors

I have discovered that my sister’s dolls come to life at dawn. With subtle movements, they leave the miniature house in the adjoining bedroom and enter mine, half naked, to squeeze into the drawer with my articulated heroes. I keep quiet not to disturb them and, with my eyes closed, I listen to the sound of twisting plastic as it gallops against the wooden box. Half an hour later, they leave with a smile and their hair unkempt, their flexible bodies exhausted after having accomplished their mission. The occurrence takes place unfailingly night after night, but tonight it is due to be different. Peeping through the door of my bedroom, the cheerful plastic face of the giant doll I gave my sister as a birthday present looks at the heavy padlock that I have placed on my drawer and winks me an eye. Everybody is sleeping, except us.

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The Companion

My roommate has strange habits. When the day breaks, he gets up grudgingly to close the blinds. He adores the darkness and silence of nights to sit and watch shooting stars with emotion. He prefers to hide in the closet whenever I receive guests – I don’t know whether he does it as a gesture of politeness, out of shyness, or because he is afraid that the guest may be one of those individuals who, he tells me, seek to catch him. I know the risk, but I protect his secret knowingly. Since that stormy night when he settled at home, he has become my best companion, an extraordinary pal. I see to him and feed him as if he were a harmless baby, and in the afternoons I prepare him a bath so that he can play, for a long while, with the soapy sponge among his tentacles.

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