The Night

“Lost!...Lost!...Lost!...Where the hell did I lose it!”

On the nightstand where he would usually leave it. Not there. He couldn’t stop swearing as he turned the house upside down looking for his precious possession, the little notebook with all his notes, his sketches, his superstitious belief that all his creativity was collected in that black object, in its pages filled with markings and words, unrepeatable, irretrievable.

Every day he spent going around streets, squares, monuments, capturing tired faces, smiling faces, the various forms of human nature, the bruised and melancholic characters of his sweet and intimist stories.

And now? Lost. Months of work… He turned the pockets of all his clothes inside out, even those he hadn’t worn in years, emptied drawers, pots and pans…

“There you go… somewhere out there… maybe it was stolen, it’s impossible!”

He went out into the night, retracing his steps from the day.

But in the darkness everything was changed: the streets, the squares warmed by the sweetness of the afternoon sun were now full of nooks and crannies, of fleeting shadows, of an invisible but perceived threat.

The people that filled those streets just a few hours before had been replaced by furtive figures. The silence, broken only by creaking and rustling sounds, loomed over him.

On the dark cobblestone path, the hope of finding his little black book was fading. The fear of horrific encounters growing with every step, magnified by the feeling that he had gotten lost.

It seemed to him that he was suddenly far away, hopelessly alone. Then he started thinking: “What would I give for my little black book, to not be here, now.”

It was in that moment that he saw a brown bag on the ground, abandoned. It looked like it was bursting at the seams. He picked it up instinctively and opened it. “Money, it’s full of money! At least 15 or 20 thousand dollars.”

He thought it was cursed if because of it he had had to give up the little black book of his creativity.

He looked up in a moment of rage and froze.

In front of him two threatening figures were pointing a knife at him.

“The bag, man!”

He noticed an object peering from the pocket of the taller man that was damn near identical to his black book. Victim for a second time of the city’s violence, first the theft he hadn’t noticed, and now no certainty of how this would end, beaten in an alley, slaughtered in a slice of darkness? He was paralyzed.

He wanted to say “take the money and give me back my notebook” but he was hardly even able to breathe.

It was the first time he became aware of the reality of violence, small street violence, but ruthless like the big one.

His temples pounding in flames, his throat dry, no idea of what to do, time suddenly still.

For a moment he thought of his selfish life, of what would be lost forever, just like his little black book.

He dropped the bag to the ground after what seemed like the longest time and felt his legs buckling under him. He collapsed to his knees expecting the worst, the wait prolonged only by the time the two were taking to examine the loot, knowing that the money could not be the price to getting back his notebook anymore.

He realized that the two had already decided that the money was too much to let him live: the police would have combed through the area with their description in hand. They kicked him a couple times and ripped off his watch, took his wallet and cellphone and shoved and pushed him towards a dead end.

He felt the warmth of urine against his legs, he was shaking with shame and fear but still was not able to retaliate.

The shorter man gripped the knife and struck him in his side…

With his last instinctive gesture he grabbed his little black book from the pocket of the other man… and fell from his bed, clasping his notebook tightly, finally awake.