Passing Through a Great Sorrow

(To be read to the soundtrack of Erik Satie)

The first time the telephone rang, he didn't move. He sat there on the old, yellow cushion, covered with faded shepherdesses holding flower wreaths. The colorful, flickering lights from the muted TV made the room quiver, pale under the morbid and luxurious burgundy glow of some old movie. When the phone rang again, he was trying to remember if the name of the slow, scratchy melody coming from the other room was "Pleasant Despair" or "For a Pleasant Despair." Either way, he thought: despair. And: pleasant.

The light from the streetlamp filtered in through the lace of the curtains, bluish, mixing with the washed-out color of the film. Before the phone rang a third time, he decided to get up—to check the name of the piece, he told himself, then headed to the other room, through the narrow hallway where his pants brushed against the striped leaf of a plant, as they always did. I need to find a new place for it, he thought, as he always did. And before reaching for the phone on the bookcase, he bent down over the records scattered across the floor, between an overflowing ashtray and a ceramic mug, nearly empty except for some residue at the bottom that formed a green paste, moist and dense. "Désespoir agréable," he confirmed. Standing there, he grabbed the white sleeve and put it on the table while repeating in his head: either way, despair. And pleasant.

"Lui?" The familiar voice. "Hello? Is that you, Lui?"

"Here," he said.

"What are you up to?"

He sat down. Then he stretched out his arm and stared at his own palm. The spots flaking off, uric acid, they'd told him, slowly eating away at the skin.

"Hello? Can you hear me?"

"Hey," he said.

"I asked what you were doing."

"What I'm doing? Nothing. Just listening to music, watching TV." He relaxed his hand. "I was about to make some coffee. And go to sleep."

"Hello? Can you speak up?"

"But I'm not sure I have any left."

"What?"

"Nothing, it's not important. And you?"

On the other end of the line, she sighed. There was a brief silence and then a dry click and a sort of puffing. She must've lit a cigarette, he thought. He mechanically leaned his body to the left to reach the ashtray full of cigarette butts and pull it closer to the phone.

"What's going on?" he asked slowly, looking around for a pack of cigarettes.

"Listen. Don't you feel like taking a little walk?"

"I'm tired. Not really in the mood. And I have to get up early tomorrow."

"I'll come pick you up. Then I'll drop you off. We won't be long at all. We could go to a bar, to a movie theater, to a—"

"It's after ten," he said.

Her voice got a bit shrill.

"Then come to me. You don't want that either, do you? I have this great vodka. The best. You'll love it, haven't even opened it yet. Only thing missing is the lime. Will you bring one?" Her voice was suddenly so shrill he had to hold the phone away from his ear. For a moment, he just listened to the distant melody of a piano, slow and scratchy. Through the glass door panes, with the light shining out back, he could see the tops of the green plants in the garden, scattered yellow leaves on the ground. Unconsciously, he almost shivered in the chill air. Or from a kind of fear. He rubbed the dry palm of his left hand against his thigh. Her voice sounded normal again. "And what if I went over there?"

His fingers brushed against the pack of cigarettes in his back pocket. He held the phone pressed between his shoulder and his face as he slowly pulled out the pack.

"It's just—" he said.

"Lui?"

He held one of the cigarettes...