On the Edge Read Online Free PDF

locksmiths, couriers, glaziers or food distributors; white thighs or yellowish breasts, pink torsos, flesh the color of milky coffee or black—or, as people used to say, the color of ebony, gleaming in the fragile morning light: a sampler of all the races (although only very rarely are there any Asian women—Chinese, Cambodian or Thai—though you can, of course, find them), but the majority are women from Eastern Europe, women with bluish, almost phosphorescent flesh, who seem to emit light rather than receive it. There are loads of African women and quite a few Latin Americans, although lately I’ve seen fewer Brazilians, who were the first to appear here. It seems that things are on an upswing in Brazil, and I imagine the girls setting up business in Rio or São Paulo, hopefully starting their own hair salons or boutiques selling clothes or shoes. Great things seem to be in the offing for Brazil, what with the Olympics being held there and everything. I drive past the women almost without looking. I know one of them, I’ve seen her here before, and another woman, a Ukrainian I fucked a few months ago, stands looking at the car as I pass, she probably recognized me, but today I drive on—a quick sideways glance and onward. I’m not on the look-out for sex. I’m on the look-out for locations, for a suitable stage. Or, rather, I’m driving to the spot I’ve already chosen, to carry out a visual inspection, as they say on the news about the police investigating a crime scene: I’m going back to the very first place I can remember, the place my uncle showed me and that my father always seemed to hanker after, somewhere he would like to have stayed, but couldn’t: a second chance. You see, Dad, this time, the postman rang more than twice. You’ve seen the film, haven’t you? Pretty dirty stuff, like everything else in this world. I remember the two main actors, covered in flour, rolling around on the kitchen table. So like life. The theme of the film: the egotism of those who betray and kill for the sake of money and pleasure, the usual tedious story. But then life, basically, is a dirty business; regardless of whether it’s pleasure or pain, we all sweat, shit and smell. My old man learned this in the best of all possible schools—war (a war between neighbors too), police stations and prison. The things you can see and smell in places and circumstances like that . . . but let’s not go there. Anyway, if I spot some bird I can shoot (and the marsh is a sure-fire place for that), I’ll do a little hunting. Small game, of course. That’s why I brought my shotgun. It deserves a role in this rehearsal. A key role. It’ll play a decisive role in the dénouement. When I say hunting, I mean hunting for birds, and not the human kind, today they’re off the menu: you want fucky-fucky I’ll suck you off without a condom or you can give it to me from behind for thirty euros—from the front, twenty. Nothing much has changed since men were men. Man—a biped buyer of cunts. Not a bad definition. In drachma in sestertius in doubloons in pounds in marks in dollars in roubles. In euros. A buyer of cunts, a hirer of asses, but I don’t want to confuse things by mixing up my expeditions; it seems right to impose a certain order on a day like today. The eve of liturgical celebrations calls for a little quiet reflection: confession of one’s sins and penance. The purpose of the emendation is irrelevant in this case. There will be no opportunity to reoffend. Before Christmas comes Advent; before Easter comes Lent. Rigorous days of meditation and abstinence that prepare us for the party. Let’s do it. Drive out desire, drive out the voices and mouths that ooze desire, the doorways that feed the oven of desire: the velvety voice, the seductive timber, the soft lips, the poisonous music. Corn pancakes made with eggs, a plantain sandwich, the creamy rice we make in Valle del Cauca. Don Esteban, you have no idea how delicious