The Day I Killed My Father

by Mario Sabino

  There, in the study, I also thought about my mother. How could she have fallen in love with such a man? Was it possible he’d managed to hide his true essence from her? No, my mother had most likely glimpsed the monster in him, but had believed that her love could redeem him. ‘The love that moves the sun and the other stars.’ Dante’s line illuminated me. Yes, redemption was possible. But not redemption through Good — this possibility had been lost to me a long time before, with the death of my mother and her love that moved the sun and the other stars. The path to redemption was now one of moral homeopathy. Similia similibus curantur — like things are cured by like. Evil, that is. I was no longer interested in how Evil is born in people. For me, at this moment, knowing it was the best alternative was enough.

  Yes, you’re right. I need to explicitly admit that I believe in God, instead of using subterfuges. But the only God I’m able to believe in is forged in my own likeness and image: the creator not of Heaven or Earth, but of Hell, and Purgatory, to which I descended to redeem my father and myself.

  Of course, this has nothing to do with being a man of spirit. You asked me a while back if I thought I was a man of spirit. No, I’m not — which doesn’t mean I disagree with the notion that such men are the motors of history. It’s just that I’ve learned that philosophical systems, which serve above all to explain our actions, are not mutually exclusive, as most philosophers believe. What I mean is that I’m not a man of spirit, but I believe that subjectivity is truth. That’s from Kierkegaard. And a person’s truth is proportional to how much they are willing to risk, based on their faith in God. It must be a lot in my case, judging from what I have at stake.

  The remedy I’d use on my father was, in fact, a wish come true. The principle might be homeopathic, but not the dose. I’d wanted to kill him countless times, but now I’d really do it, and with my own hands. Making him a victim would be a way to free him of his own monstrosity, to absolve him — and, thus, to celebrate him as a father. Isn’t satisfaction the end of desire? But his redemption couldn’t mean my moral damnation, seeing that I didn’t want to take my father’s place, but surpass him. After hours of anguish, I made another decision: I would have to inflict some kind of pain upon myself that would be a scourge on me until the day I died. Purgatory in life.

  Once the general resolutions had been established, I wrote my wife a letter. In it, I advised her to hire a good lawyer to look after her interests. Then she should return to France and have her child there. Full stop. No accusations or goodbyes. My advice was followed to a T. She now lives with the child (a boy) in Paris, together with that American guy she’d dated before she met me. Lucky guy.

  I left the letter in my desk drawer, printed a copy of Future, put it in a cardboard folder, and erased the file from my computer. It was already night when I left my house for the last time, taking only my unfinished book. There were other things to be done before my father got back from his trip.

  –29–

  The day I killed my father was a bright day, although the light was hazy, without shadows or contours. Or perhaps it was grey, that shade of grey which even tinges souls that are not usually inclined to melancholy… That would make a good start for a book, wouldn’t it? Except that books no longer exist for me.

  It was with a blow to the back of his neck and another to the top of his head. But I wasn’t alone when I called the police. Through the guy who’d blackmailed my father’s driver, I’d spent a small fortune hiring three criminals to come into the house after I’d murdered him. I’d instructed them to immobilise me immediately after the phone-call, even if I changed my mind at the last minute — which I didn’t.

  ‘Come and arrest me. I’ve killed my father,’ I said, and hung up the phone. The criminals then did what had been arranged. Two of them held me by the arms and head. Immobilised on an armchair, I could still see my father’s body lying on the sofa, before the third crook poured acid into my eyes.

  And then the light went out.

  This silence … Are you still there?

  Contents

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Part One

  –1–

  –2–

  –3–

  –4–

  –5–

  –6–

  –7–

  –8–

  –9–

  –10–

  –11–

  Future (a novel)

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  Part Two

  –12–

  –13–

  –14–

  –15–

  –16–

  –17–

  –18–

  –19–

  –20–

  –21–

  –22–

  –23–

  –24–

  –25–

  –26–

  –27–

  –28–

  –29–