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Narcosis
Francisco Garófalo
After losing his mother at birth and being abandoned by his father, Lorenzo is taken to live with his aunt, who makes the decision to send him away to boarding school. There the little Lorenzo witnesses children being ill-treated and some mysterious murders. In an unexpected twist, Lorenzo’s life takes a surprising turn when he receives a family inheritance.
After spending his whole childhood in penury, the young Lorenzo receives an inheritance. However, he squanders his fortune and with what is left over he tries to become a policeman, intending to solve the mysterious murders he witnessed, find those responsible and bring them to justice. In this relentless quest, Lorenzo ends up finding the love of his life and follows his destiny to its very end.


NARCOSIS
Francisco Garófalo
Translated by Philip Walker
NARCOSIS
© Francisco Garófalo, 2021
© Philip Walker, 2021, translation.
© Tektime, 2021
© Libros Duendes, 2021

Cover design and layout: Libros Duendes

www.librosduendes.com (http://www.librosduendes.com/)

No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means, whether by photocopying or any other means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holders.
To God, for the continued gift of life. To my parents, for setting me a good example and for giving me an education.
To all my friends who have known how to listen to me, who have read my work and who have given me their opinion. To them I dedicate this book.

I
He was sitting on a bench drinking a cup of tea. He lived in a white house, although he had never liked that colour. He had an absent expression, gazing in no particular direction. He was serene, nothing interrupted him, nothing bothered him, nothing disturbed him, until his hand touched a square object that felt awkward inside his jacket.
Overcome with curiosity, he decided to take it out of his pocket; it was an old, creased notebook with a worn cover, dirty after so many years of abandonment. The strange thing for him was finding his name written on the notebook, as the title was “Lorenzo’s Diary”.
Lorenzo opened the notebook to glance through it and after a short scan, he closed it. He was overcome by a deep sense of curiosity and anxiety. He opened it anew. Were they perhaps words that he did not remember, sentences without meaning, anecdotes or simply memories that at some time it had occurred to him to write down? He had no idea; he would have to investigate. He felt a pain in his chest. Were they events he could no longer remember, an existence he had lived, an endless number of thoughts grouped together by date? He would have to find out what it was about.
He made himself comfortable on his bench in the Ecuadorian sunshine so that he could read carefully.
It began: I, Lorenzo, have decided to write this diary in case one day I forget what I have experienced in my life. I have not recorded my surname because I don’t have one. The circumstances that, in the past, led me to commit acts I should never have committed now torment me in the present. I accumulated debts in the past but I did not honour them. Now I am paying them.
The fact is, we all pay what we owe, although sometimes some people pay more than they owe. The worst thing is that I do not remember everything I did or failed to do.
Who wants to remember their misery? Although nobody can say that my whole life has been miserable, perhaps my destiny was simply written in the stars. I don’t know.
I do not remember where everything happened, nor when, nor the places, nor the times when maybe I was happy. I do not remember much. That is why I write. That is why I wrote to remember it, to not forget what I did, to not forget my sins, to not forget what I have already forgotten.
My mother died giving birth to me and I never knew the whereabouts of my father. That’s why I went to live at my Aunt Carlota’s house. At the time I did not know why my aunt was taking responsibility for me.
We arrived at the blue house with bone-coloured interior walls and I must confess I did not like those colours. I have never been very receptive to colours. I do not believe a colour makes a difference to how you live each day, as some psychologists claim, propounding theories that perhaps could be true. Personally, I think it is nonsense. Only our good deeds and our shortcomings make a difference.
The important thing is how we act and proceed in this wretched world, and I use the word “wretched” not because it really is, but just because I was unlucky or because I borrowed too much and then I did not want to pay.
We know that we are good at borrowing but very bad when it is time to pay. We know that and yet still we carry on doing the same things, justifying ourselves with the banal pretext that “we are only human”. But if we are human we should know that we are the most intelligent animals in the world. Maybe our intelligence is what makes us complete. I don’t know, perhaps I will never know.

II
I arrived in a place where I was not welcome, where nobody was happy about my presence. I was simply somebody who arrived to invade everybody’s lives. Especially her life.
Later on I would realise that my aunt did not love me, nor did her husband or her son. It was to be expected. I was someone who had arrived to disrupt the family, an apparently happy family, and I emphasise the word “apparently” because it was all a façade, a false life, just as most people have. Most people who live each day without knowing what they are living for. Who lack purpose and sleepwalk through empty streets, like ghosts without ideas. Zombies who live their lives lost and trapped by the evil acts that condemn them to be confined in freedom to a life without meaning and without dreams.
When I took my first step nobody was pleased, when I said my first word nobody was excited. Who was going to be excited when for them I did not exist? I was a non-entity, not even an object in that house. Someone who was never among their priorities.
When I reached my fifth birthday nobody threw me a party, nobody congratulated me, nobody thought of me, but I understood it since nobody loved me. She was the only one who took any notice of me.
I remember her. Of course I remember her. Her pink blouse, her curly hair, her red lips, her black eyes, her smile that gave me a reason to keep living.
She started to become the reason for my existence. It was for her that I kept myself alive in that house. It was her that made me sigh; it was her that made me dream; she was the only one who wished me a happy birthday and who gave me a kiss as a present and said, ‘I love you very much.’ And from that day I knew that she was the one for me. That she would be my wife forever.
Yes, I was a little boy with the dreams of a little boy, a little boy who loved with the love of a little boy, a little boy who clung to her because she was the only one who paid him any attention. A little boy who wanted to be loved.

III
I learnt. I began to know a lot. I learnt things by myself. Nobody taught me. I was a little boy who learnt day by day and I spent all day watching television since that was the only way for me to amuse myself and discover the world at the same time. I learnt, or maybe I didn’t.
What can television teach us? Perhaps quite a lot. Mostly bad things, depending on what we choose to watch. And what does a little boy of five choose to watch? Cartoons which are either violent or where the main characters are two talking animals. It’s entertainment, or at least that’s what they tell us.
But the truth is you end up acting like them and you get caught up in a vicious circle of stupidity and nastiness. The soaps, what do they teach you? The songs that make no sense? From that I learnt.
I didn’t know how to select television channels. Action films fascinated me. Their cleverness for killing and the different ways of fighting. I ended up absorbed in pornographic films that I found in the drawer of my aunt’s dresser. An apparently moral woman. How could I find pornography in her drawer? There is seemingly no limit to people’s falseness. They put on a mask so that they are not exposed.
I filled my head with rubbish. It was what the world offered me at the time and I took full advantage. And I took in everything I looked at, everything I heard, everything I could cram into my brain. If you ask me today, I admit that it was the worst way to learn. Perhaps I should have pored over books but what do texts matter to a little boy? I wouldn’t even have understood the links between several meaningless chapters because I didn’t have the education to decipher the hidden message. I didn’t even have anyone to explain it to me.
My cousins learnt differently to me. They had parents who taught them things and cared about their education. They had set times for watching television. To see their favourite programmes, first they had to study and do their homework, then their parents gave them advice on this or that over an afternoon snack before they got their prize, time in front of the television. Every night at bedtime, their parents read them fables with morals so that they learnt good things and would grow up to become successful professionals. However, false words never bear fruit.
You can’t teach by saying one thing and doing the opposite. The best way to teach is by example. We should talk less and do what we say. Imposing is not the way. Encouragement is better.
If you want your child to take an interest in reading, let them see you reading. If you don’t want them to lie, don’t lie yourself. That is how to educate. You can’t educate if you don’t set an example. You can’t harvest healthy fruit if you sow weeds. You can’t do it, however much you may want to.

IV
I didn’t count for anything in that house, left to fester in any old corner. If I wanted to change my lot in life, I would have to do it myself. Only my cousin Carla, who was eight years old, helped me or showed me any sign of affection, although I think really it was a sentiment more akin to pity.
Carla was the only one who showed any concern for me and it is thanks to her that I survived in that house.
I gave a name to the pity she felt.
That day of my fifth birthday, I went upstairs to my Aunt Carlota’s room to steal some money from her as I had realised that was my only way of getting any money to help me escape.
I had no other options.
I had learnt how do it – another lesson from the television programmes.
I opened the door to her room very gradually as I wasn’t sure if she had gone out.
I went in very slowly, trying not to make any noise. I looked inside and saw my aunt laying on her bed next to a man who was not her husband. I moved a little closer to look at the guy’s face and I saw that it was don Arnulfo’s best friend, don Nicolás.
You can’t always see what is happening under your nose but know that the truth will always come out. However much you try to hide it, however much you think nobody can see you, know that they are watching you; nothing stays hidden forever and we pay for everything in this life.
Don Nico, as everybody called him, always came to the house for lunch and everybody adored him, nobody more so than don Arnulfo who always spoke highly of him. He used to say that don Nicolás was his best friend and that was why he thought of him as a brother.
That day I realised why my aunt was never annoyed when they arrived home drunk. Instead, she took care of them and quickly took don Arnulfo to the bedroom so he could sleep, then took don Nicolás to the other bedroom and stayed with him for a few hours before going back to her husband. I also realised why my aunt always invited don Nicolás over when her children were at school and her husband was at work; they spent the time ensconced in the bedroom. I never said anything because I didn’t understand but that day I realised what was really going on.
My aunt was like the evil women in novels. Those women who cheat on their husbands while giving the impression of being saints. Those heartless women who only think about money. Like the first woman who existed in the world. Like the woman who ate the forbidden fruit. The one who led the man to his downfall. To adultery.
I must admit that I hated my aunt. And I had been presented with an opportunity for revenge.
An idea went round in my mind. I liked it and for the first time I felt a desire. A desire that grew in intensity inside me.

V
I rushed out of my aunt’s bedroom to look for Carla. She was the only one I could confide in. I knew she could help me unmask my aunt. I wanted her to know that her mother was a hussy, not because I wanted to hurt her but so she could see what her mother was doing, and in my stupid brain I thought she would be grateful to me.
I don’t know why I looked for her. This news would cause her pain, it would break her heart. Maybe it was because she was the only one I trusted, because I felt she understood me.
I searched the whole house but I couldn’t find her. I looked in the garden, in her bedroom and finally I found her in the kitchen helping to prepare the food. Another quality in her favour.
She was a girl who always liked helping other people. She never looked down on the maid or treated her badly. She always helped her with her duties.
I grabbed her by the arm, without saying a single word to her, and I took her with me.
On the way to my aunt’s bedroom, she asked, ‘Where are you taking me?’
‘I want you to see something.’
‘See what?’
And with a jerk she released herself from my weak arm.
‘Tell me what it is you want me to see.’
‘Your mother.’
‘My mother?’
‘Yes, she’s cheating on your father. She’s a hussy.’
‘Shut up.’
And she very nearly hit me for the insult.
‘Have a look for yourself and then decide, if you really think I’m lying. What are you afraid of?’
‘I’m not afraid.’
‘Let’s go then.’
‘All right, but if you are lying to me, I will never help you again.’
We went into the room and Carla almost fainted when she saw her mother making love to don Nicolás. She wanted to shout but a knot in her throat stopped any sound coming out.
Her eyes looked as though they were going to pop out of their sockets.
Her face changed colour.
We left without the lovers noticing us.
We headed for my bedroom. Or rather, I led her there, she was in shock.
She tried to clear her mind and digest what she had seen. It can’t be easy for any child to discover that their mother is not what they thought she was, what she appeared to be.
‘What should I do?’ she asked, finally.
I didn’t know what to say.
I wanted revenge on my aunt. It would have been easy for me to suggest that she phone her father and destroy my aunt’s marriage but I didn’t want Carla to suffer, I didn’t want to see her cry. Destroying my aunt’s marriage meant destroying Carla’s home and I didn’t want to do that.
‘Remember that I love you very much,’ I said, and without thinking, I kissed her on the lips.
It was something I had planned to do for so long without knowing how, although of course I had rehearsed it.
She took a step backwards.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Where did you learn to do that?’
‘Watching TV and practising with my pillow.’
This confession amused her.
And I, in my imaginary world, sensed that she had liked it, that she wanted it too.
My ideas ran away with me. Neither thoughts nor dreams have limits.
I thought she felt the same about me as well.
That she, too, had dreamt of that kiss.
We left the room and Pedro, her older brother, who was eleven, blocked our path; he had seen the kiss.
He came towards Carla, seized her roughly by her right arm and looked like he was about to hit her in the face. I intervened immediately to prevent him from hitting her but with a single punch to my abdomen he knocked the hero to the floor. Carla tried to help me but couldn’t, her brother gave her a slap and dragged her away. I saw him dragging her from my position on the floor. They disappeared from my view and I never imagined that would be the last time I would see her.
I still think of that day during my eternal sleepless nights, imagining what might have become of her, what fate awaited her, what destiny had in store for her. Where had she ended up?
Ten minutes later I got to my feet and ran to look for Carla but my aunt had already heard what had happened, blocked my path, took me by the arm and marched me forcibly to my bedroom. Once we were inside, she gave me such a beating that I did not sleep for the whole night.

VI
The next day they took me to a boarding school claiming that it was best for my education. That was just a pretext. It was a good way for them to get rid of me and simultaneously put some distance between Carla and me, as well as preventing my aunt’s husband from finding out her secret.
They put me in a black van. I looked up at her window. Maybe she was behind the tinted glass watching my departure in tears, bidding me farewell from afar.
I sensed that she loved me. Perhaps it was simply a delusion, a daydream, a hope. A hope that I needed to sustain myself with life. A life I already regarded as lost, but she was the dream, my reason to live, to see her again one day and kiss her lips once more.
We arrived at the boarding school which was not the least bit pleasant. The walls were stained, the floors were in a state and there was a tense atmosphere. Wire mesh fences four metres high and the presence of numerous security guards gave the place the appearance of the prison that in reality it was. A prison for my aspirations, a confinement of my soul, my dreams, my life, my love.
We were received by the headmistress, a woman very advanced in years. She was called Josefina. She was very sour, unpleasant, had never married and therefore had never had children. She didn’t want to admit me to the school because I still did not have my identity card since my birth had never been formally registered. Officially, I had neither a first name nor a surname. My aunt gave her some money and told her to call me “Lorenzo”. The old lady accepted.
We know that problems can always be resolved like that. Those tricky situations. Money is the king of humanity. Of that sick humanity that thinks money solves everything. It buys many things but it will never buy happiness, not true happiness. Money is power and my aunt was demonstrating it.
Once we were inside the boarding school, doña Josefina preached a long sermon at me that seemed like it was never going to end. I pretended to pay attention. She read me the rules of her institution, but I have forgotten them.
They gave me a uniform and I was ready for my first day of lessons with the PE teacher.
Miss Rosa was the youngest of the teachers at just seventeen years of age. She had long legs, raven black hair, honey-coloured eyes and an angelic face. She welcomed me with an enormous smile and hugged me as though we were old friends.
The lessons went smoothly and without incident, so much so that I began to feel at home. That night my classmates got together to prepare a welcome for me. Or so I imagined.
When I went into the dormitory, they all gathered round me. I was scared, I thought they were going to beat me up but no, they just hugged me without saying a single word and went to their beds. I felt good. I thought that finally I had found a good place to live. It wasn’t like that. Things were about to change.

VII
At midnight they woke me up with punches, undressed me and threw me in a bath of freezing cold water.
They all laughed and shrieked, ‘Welcome to hell.’
In that institution there was a group of pupils made up of ten classmates who ruled the roost. The gang’s leader was a boy called Sebastián and his second-in-command was Marcos Maldonado.
I endured midnight beatings for years and there was nobody at all to defend me.
Once I went to the headmistress but Sebastián was the son of a successful businessman who was a great friend of doña Josefina, people told me. I was almost beaten for making false accusations.
‘I only have one rule,’ she said, ‘Never lie because if you do I will take it upon myself to correct your bad habit.’
She told me this while brandishing a bullwhip.
They didn’t let me sleep at night. They hit me and made fun of me.
Only one child watched from a corner. A boy who seemingly did not want to involve himself in this sort of problem. A boy who was isolated from all the others, perhaps with psychological problems, a boy whom I met and saw again.
We were children but we seemed like adults. With no responsibilities and full of hatred. A hatred that consumes you and burns you inside and that only revenge can extinguish.
I had to look for somewhere else to sleep.
I needed to flee from Sebastián’s mob.
I found a bath to sleep in. It became my sanctuary.

VIII
I reached ten years of age and I realised things had to change. I wasn’t willing to continue being the pathetic punch bag who puts up with everything without complaint. I didn’t want to keep on being the butt of jokes by all the mediocre people around me.
I had to do something to make everyone start to respect me.
I took one of the tablets that the school doctor had prescribed me. Those tablets really helped me to relax and feel more certain of my decisions. I can’t remember what they were called but I do remember that they helped me.
I got everything ready for my revenge.
I went to the kitchen without anyone noticing.
The cooks had gone home.
After cleaning up they had two hours off. I knew that. I had studied their routine.
This was my chance.
I picked up the knife, took it to my dormitory and hid it under my pillow.
I was ready to kill Sebastián. I had it all planned. When he went to bed, I would stab him in the chest with the knife.
I went to the bathroom and waited.
I was nervous. I didn’t know if I would be brave enough to do it.
I was filled with hate. I had never killed, not even an animal. My courage was seeping away but I had to do it. I took another tablet to calm myself down.
Midnight struck and I went up to the dormitory trying not to make any noise.
I opened the door that never closed properly; it almost creaked but I didn’t let it. I took a step forward, managing not to trip over the shoe rack, and made my way towards Sebastián’s bed. He was fast asleep. I lifted my hand ready to plunge the knife into his chest but my courage deserted me, I couldn’t do it, I had a sudden attack of morality that wouldn’t let me do it, or perhaps I was just scared of what might happen.
I couldn’t do it. I wasn’t brave enough.
I put the knife away under my pillow and went to my sanctuary.
The next morning the cleaning lady found the knife in my bed and informed the headmistress.
The headmistress sent for me straight away.
I went into her office and found her waiting with the bullwhip in her hand.
She didn’t ask me what the knife was doing in my bed, nor did she let me speak. She just started to whip me so hard that I ended up in the boarding school’s sick bay.
I hated the headmistress and after that thrashing I just wanted to kill her, although she did me a favour in a way since in the sick bay at least I finally had a rest from Sebastián’s group and for once I could sleep in a bed with a blanket and a pillow, which I kissed imagining it was Carla.
I was discharged after five days.
I dressed in my uniform, picked up my school rucksack and headed for the classroom but there was nobody there, the chairs were tucked neatly under the desks, there were papers on the floor; it looked as though nobody had been there for a while. I went to look for my classmates and found them in the dormitory.
‘What’s going on?’ I asked Miss Rosa, who was crying.
‘Someone killed Sebastián! Someone killed him!’
This news didn’t have much effect on me as I hated him and the rest of my classmates.
‘Come here, Lorenzo,’ commanded the headmistress who had spotted my presence and the fact that I was smiling.
I approached her and she promptly frogmarched me to her office.
‘You killed Sebastián, didn’t you?’
‘No, I didn’t do it,’ I answered.
Sebastián’s chest had the kitchen knife stuck in it and as I had taken it five days previously she was perfectly entitled to think that I had taken his life.
‘You’re a murderer,’ she said.
‘I didn’t kill him.’
‘Then who did?’
‘I don’t know. How would I know?’
‘You had the knife. Why did you steal it?’
I didn’t reply.
‘Answer me. If you don’t answer me, I’ll give you another thrashing.’
I still didn’t reply.
She didn’t thrash me but she locked me in a room she called the punishment room, for incorrigible children, for rebellious children like me. I don’t know what happened outside, nor did I want to know. Fear overwhelmed me; being alone in that dark room, the darkness terrified me, I didn’t like being locked in. I think I suffer from claustrophobia. Perhaps that’s why I couldn’t kill Sebastián.
Someone opened the door and the bright light prevented me from seeing who it was. When my eyes adjusted to the light I saw her, it was the headmistress, she was drinking a cup of coffee and looking at me closely.
‘What am I going to do with you, Lorenzo?’ she sighed as she sipped her coffee. ‘You are too troublesome and I am not willing to put up with you any longer, you don’t have anybody and I am not going to carry on looking after you.’
She looked me straight in the eyes as she drank another mouthful of coffee. Her look was a mixture of loneliness, bitterness and resentment built up over many years.
‘You are a problem child. Nobody wants you. You are a blight on society.’
Her words hurt and humiliated me but the worst thing was, they were true.
‘But I remember now that you do have someone.’
And then she stopped. She dropped her coffee cup and fell to the floor.
I didn’t understand what was happening or know what to do. She might have fainted or be dead – I didn’t want to find out. I ran from her office without knowing what had happened to the headmistress. Nobody would have believed my version anyway.
I ran all over the building looking for a gap in the bars that I could squeeze through but there was no chance of escaping. I was desperate, imagining myself locked up in jail for something I didn’t do. My head was spinning, I felt sick, I didn’t know what to do. I heard footsteps approaching rapidly and without a second thought I ran, looking for somewhere to hide. I found myself staring at my classmate’s coffin and realised that perhaps it was my only hope of escape.
There was no other way to get out of that place.
I remembered something the headmistress had said. ‘Only the dead get out of here.’

IX
The footsteps were getting closer and I decided to take Sebastián’s place. It was not pleasant but if the headmistress was right, then I would leave as a dead person.
I removed Sebastián’s body as quickly as I could, put it under a desk the teachers used and took his place in the coffin, putting my fear to one side.
Miss Rosa came in but she didn’t see me.
She walked towards the coffin.
My classmate’s parents had just finished the paperwork to remove their son’s body and give him a final farewell.
As they were wealthy people, it was all settled very quickly. There were no hitches.
The only thing pending was the threat of closing the place down because of what had happened.
Miss Rosa started to move closer to the coffin, intending to see her pupil one last time and say a last goodbye. She could have done it later – what was the hurry? I was worried she would see me.
I became frightened.
The teacher continued walking towards me. She was bound to discover me.
Standing next to the coffin, she raised her hand to lift the lid but she didn’t open it; instead she made sure it was shut properly.
‘We are ready whenever you wish, sir,’ interrupted Sebastián’s father’s servants.
‘Very well. Let’s go,’ he ordered.
They lifted the coffin onto their shoulders and Miss Rosa stood back to give the men room.
They loaded the coffin into their vehicle and set off for their mansion.
I was happy and worried at the same time. I was going to be free, but where would I go? To look for Carla, but where? I didn’t even know if she still lived with her parents or if the family had moved to a different city.
We reached our destination and they unloaded me, put me in a room and left me on my own. I tried to open the coffin but it was stuck fast. I pushed hard to no effect. I started to become desperate as fears went round inside my head. ‘What if they bury me alive?’ I thought to myself. ‘What good would everything I have done be if they bury me alive?’

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