The Insulted and the Miraculous

My mother and I found ourselves in one of those establishments--Italian, perhaps, or some pale imitation thereof--where the air is thick with the scent of garlic and the clatter of plates, and every glance from a stranger feels like an accusation.

The prices, she remarked with that familiar, quiet bitterness of hers, were outrageous, monstrously so. She spoke not in anger, but in the weary tone of one who has long ago accepted that the world conspires against the poor, yet still cannot refrain from protesting against it. The waiter, a man of middle years with the face of one who has heard every complaint under the sun, answered her with neither warmth nor cruelty--only that indifferent courtesy which is worse than rudeness, for it leaves no foothold for indignation.

I sat there, burning with shame. Shame that I could not shield her from such petty humiliations, shame that my pockets were as empty as my promises. I tormented myself with visions of sudden wealth: lists of schemes, dark calculations, the temptation to take what was not mine. But the thought of prison--of iron bars and the slow rot of the soul--struck me like a lash. No, I could not become that. I could not descend so low.

And yet the guilt gnawed deeper: she spoke (or did I only imagine it?) of the endless labor in the apartment, the scrubbing, the sweeping, the endless small wars against dust and disorder. I murmured something about helping more, about taking on the burden myself, though the words tasted like dust in my mouth. What help could I offer, I who could scarcely keep myself from crumbling?

The food arrived--meager portions, as though the kitchen itself mocked our expectations. My plate held a strange green pasta, twisted and glistening, like something dredged from a swamp.

I began to eat mechanically, when my eye caught movement above us: a balcony or terrace, half-hidden, where three women of uncertain age sat--not at table, but perched like crows on a wire. They ate nothing. One coughed--a dry, persistant cough that cut through the murmur of the room. My mother stiffened at once. "Diseases," she whispered fiercely. "COVID, or something worse. She should not be here. Or at least she should wear a mask if she is ill." Her voice rose, sharp with righteous fear.

The woman heard. She leaned over the railing, eyes flashing. Words flew--accusations, denials, the petty fury of strangers who suddenly feel themselves attacked. My blood surged. Something black and uncontrollable rose in me. I stood, trembling, and cried out: "Kill yourself, bitch!"

The words hung in the air like smoke from a pistol. Silence fell, broken only by the clink of a fork someone had dropped. I turned and walked--strode--toward the door. A young man, handsome in that careless way that makes one hate him on sight, stepped forward with some trivial question--"Did you order from the bar?" or some such nonsense. I said nothing. I could not. The door swung shut behind me.

Outside, the street reeled. A wire--some low-hung cable or trap of fate--caught at my foot; I stumbled, caught myself, quickened my pace. Voices followed me from the restaurant, indistinct, mocking. I ran into the roadway. A car swerved, horn blaring. I scarcely noticed.

Above, the sky had cracked open: vast, impossible shapes--spaceships, silent and gleaming--hung like judgment. I raised my right hand, counted the fingers: five. Again: five. Not a dream, then. Reality itself had gone mad.

One of the vessels descended, vast and luminous. A voice--not heard, but felt--promised miracles: improvements, transformations, beauty restored. I stepped inside without hesitation. The first request that tore from me was for my moustache and beard--to make them thicker, darker, more commanding, more seductive. Let them see me, I thought wildly. Let them see what I might have been.

And in that moment, suspended between shame and delirium, I understood that all my life had been a rehearsal for this single, absurd plea: to be remade, to be loved for what I was not, to escape the prison of my own face. But even as I spoke, I knew--no machine, no miracle, could touch the rot within. The moustache might grow luxurious, the beard majestic, but the soul beneath would remain the same: petty, guilty, raging, alone. And that, perhaps, was the cruelest jest of all.