Iosi Havilio: Open Door

It’s half nine and once more the action builds to a viscous nothing. I don’t want to think any more. I don’t want to and yet I wonder whether I should do something, try something, approach the fireman speaking into his walkie-talkie and ask him something. But what?

The lad with the pizza announces: He’s not going to jump at all, you’ll see. And he takes the girl’s hand again, turns around and departs, not without glancing back once or twice as he walks away; surely it can’t happen right now, not after waiting so long. But no, he’s right, it doesn’t look like anyone’s jumping after all.

In a while, the man leading the operation on the bridge takes the initiative again. The suicide case isn’t putting up as much resistance as before. He’s getting tired. The fireman advances a few steps and must be speaking to him. I wonder if he has something prepared or whether he’s improvising a few words on the spot to say that everything can be worked out, nothing’s final, except for death. No, not that, the word death can’t be prudent in such circumstances, better to avoid it. And the jumper will say to him: No, nothing has any meaning. A difficult argument to refute.

Now a small spark appears between the two. Look, explains the old woman, he’s lighting a cigarette and passing it to him. See? Yes, a tiny ember that weakens and revives as the smoke is drawn in or exhaled illuminates the black point that is not quite yet a head but which shows up against the black of the bridge and the blue-black of the sky. The shape smokes and breathes. Anyone would smoke at a time like this.

I put my hands in my trouser pockets to fish for my cigarettes, and with one in my mouth, we’re equal, from a distance. Two pairs of lungs filling with smoke. I feel calmer, he’s not going to jump, it’s for the best. The threat of a storm also seems to have passed right by.

I count: one, two, three long drags. Some, like the woman with the fake pearl necklace, have resigned themselves to not seeing anything and move away slowly, along the edge of the cordon, noiselessly, with a certain respect. Somewhat frustrated, perhaps.

And the taste of the cigarette in my mouth, rough on my palate, reminds me that I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast, that Aída and I meant to have lunch together but we couldn’t decide, lunchtime passed, and I was still hungry, even more so after the joint.

The too-young father and his daughter in the yellow bikini must be munching their pizza in front of the television by now, while they tell the young mum about the time they wasted in vain at the foot of the bridge. And if I leave, I’ll buy a pizza on the way and surprise Aída.

But just then, as I’m about to go, the old woman with the scarf grabs my arm, gesturing upwards with her nose. Look there, behind, the one next to the one with the flashlight, see? the woman says to me in a low voice, as if there’s any way he could hear her. Yes, I see, one of those crouched down a few metres behind the jumper, positioned on a higher beam, either because he has taken the decision alone or because he has received a signal from the head of operations, moves, only just at first, then suddenly tries to catch the smoking figure with a swipe that doesn’t quite reach, and everything that follows is too quick, too inconceivable. For the last time, the guy, or girl, hesitates. The glow of the cigarette can no longer be seen, he lets go with one hand, swings a leg over the rail and, just in time, before they can grab his other arm, he lets go and falls: he is falling.

Here, love, the old woman orders me as she covers her eyes with the scarf and pulls on my shoulder: Don’t watch, love, you’ll never forget it, ever. And yet I watch, I can’t stop watching. And I follow the fall with my head, my legs that bend by themselves, and the rest of my body that crumples without letting go of the railings. And in four seconds, not too fast, not too sudden, he gives a single twist in the air, turns face down, spreads his arms and legs, and slams against the sheet of putrid water which, with the impact, seems more like metal than liquid. Like a toppling crane or falling bell tower whose echo rolls on and on, further and further away.

Between my eyes and the rippling black water, my left arm crosses my face, wanting to obscure my vision, but only showing me my watch: nine forty-five. Quarter to ten, not a minute more, not a minute less.

I’m almost sitting on the ground, I don’t know how I ended up so low down. I straighten up. The other one doesn’t surface. Instead, bubbles cluster around the hole into which he vanished, either because he’s still breathing, or because the river has swallowed him and is now belching.

My gaze shoots upwards again, the three firemen are still in the same position as they were a minute ago. One shines the flashlight downwards. And for an instant, the rings of light seem to go crazy, darting all over the place, eventually getting lost in the overcast sky, as dark as the river.

Here below, more directionless than ever, the crew on the vessel, no longer receiving the encouragement of their superior, are attempting an impossible, labyrinthine, futile course. One of them holds a lifebelt of almost phosphorescent orange tied to the boat by a white rope, and, as a gesture, he throws it into the water. He doesn’t know where or to whom.

On the other bank, a boatman, who has followed the action from the island half erased by the night, launches his dinghy to help in the rescue. To no avail, because the coast-guards, protective of their official capacity, send him away with a gruff shout, to which the boatman responds with insults as he withdraws.

The old woman retied the scarf she had used to cover her eyes, and refastened a shoe that had somehow come off during the fall, and once more she grasps my arm: You’ll see, dear, I told you, you’ll never get that image out of your head. She lets go of me and departs, annoyed.

The boatman, still in the dinghy but closer to his bank, starts to gesture desperately towards our side. He shouts, he can’t be heard. Too late, the helmetless fireman, who has already hung the walkie-talkie from his belt, takes heed and notices an enormous, flat prow advancing inexorably towards us. And despite the coastguard’s cries, there is no way to stop the sand dredge with its circular cabin. Nobody noticed it, focused as we were on the fall, unable to see anything else. It’s now making its way up the Riachuelo river, passing beneath the bridge, rocking the ridiculous little rescue vessel with its impotent, disbelieving crew and erasing with its sharp keel all trace of what the river has just swallowed. The captain of the sand dredge, unaware and blameless, sounds the siren three times. Just in case.

And when the echo of the final siren fades, as if there hasn’t already been enough noise, the sky cracks, heavy with clouds. I shiver. The water hyacinths tremble and head off in search of open water, along with the small islands of rubbish, the plastic bottles, the tyres and everything that can be swept along by this muddy, carnivorous sluice. Within a few minutes, the calm of a moment ago becomes a furious, voiceless commotion, cold and glutinous, that rakes through us inside and out. The wind shakes the earth and its sediments, the smallest bits of detritus search out our eyes and above and around us we see nothing more than the confused memory, more or less horrific, of what just happened.

I leapt back onto the street and caught the first bus that passed, which, by chance, was going my way. There were no passengers, the driver was alone, listening to the radio at full blast. I sat at the front.

Intrigued by what he saw reflected in the rear-view mirror, that confusion of lights and shapes, shrinking into the distance, the guy asked me: Did something happen?