The Book of Fantasy

by Jorge Luis Borges

  Antonio didn’t look at me, he looked at the ceiling as if he were holding his breath. Mandarin unexpectedly flew by Antonio and stuck one of the little arrows in his arm. I clapped as I thought this would please Antonio. Nevertheless it seemed a ridiculous trick. Why did he not use his ingenuity to cure Ruperto! On that fatal day, Ruperto, sitting down, covered his face with his hands. How he had changed! I looked at his cold inanimate face, his dark hands.

  When would they leave me alone! I had to put my wet hair into curlers. I asked Ruperto, trying to hide my annoyance:

  ‘What’s happened?’

  A long silence which made the birds’ singing clearly audible quivered in the sun. Ruperto answered at last:

  ‘I dreamt that the canaries were pecking my arms, my neck, my chest, that I couldn’t shut my eyelids to protect my eyes. I dreamt that my arms and my legs were heavy like sacks of sand. I couldn’t scare away with my hands the horrible beaks that were pecking at my eyes. I was sleeping without being asleep as if I had taken some kind of drug. When I awoke from that dream which was not a dream, I saw darkness. But I could hear the birds singing and the normal morning noises. Making a huge effort, I called my sister, who came to me. With a voice that was not my own I said:

  ‘ “You have to call Antonio so that he can save me.” “What from?” asked my sister. I couldn’t say another single word. My sister ran out and came back half an hour later with Antonio. Half an hour which had seemed like a whole century to me! Slowly as Antonio moved my arms, I regained my strength but not my sight.’

  ‘I am going to make a confession to you’, murmured Antonio and he added slowly, ‘but without words.’

  Favorita followed Mandarin and stuck a little arrow in Antonio’s neck. Maria Callas hovered over him for an instant before sticking another little arrow in his chest. Antonio’s eyes, staring fixedly at the ceiling, seemed to change colour. Was Antonio an Indian? Could an Indian have blue eyes? His eyes somehow looked like Ruperto’s.

  ‘What does all this mean?’ I mused.

  ‘What is he doing?’ said Ruperto, who did not understand anything. Antonio didn’t answer. He remained immobile like a statue while the canaries pierced him with the inoffensive-looking arrows. I went up to the bed and shook him.

  ‘What does all this mean?’, Isaid. ‘Answer me. Answer me.’

  He did not reply. In tears, I embraced him and threw myself over his body. Losing any self-restraint, I kissed him on the mouth as only a film star could have done. A flock of canaries fluttered around my head.

  That morning Antonio looked at Ruperto with horror. I now understood that Antonio was doubly guilty. So that nobody would find out about his crime, he had said to me and had said afterwards to everybody:

  ‘Ruperto has gone mad. He thinks he is blind but he can see as well as any of us.’

  Just as the light had left Ruperto’s eyes, love left our house. It was almost as if his glances were necessary to our love. The gatherings in the patio had become quiet and dull. Antonio fell into a deep gloom. He would explain to me:

  ‘A friend’s madness is worse than death. Ruperto can see but he thinks he is blind’.

  I thought despairingly, maybe with jealousy, that friendship was more important than love in the life of a man.

  When I stopped kissing Antonio and took my face away from his, I saw that the canaries were about to peck at his eyes. I covered his face with my face and hair, which is as thick as a shawl. I ordered Ruperto to shut the door and windows so that the room should be in complete darkness, waiting for the canaries to go to sleep. My legs ached. How long did I remain like that? I don’t know. Slowly I understood Antonio’s confession. It was a confession that united us in a frenzied misfortune. I understood the pain that he had endured when sacrificing in such an ingenious way, with a minute dose of Curare and the winged monsters which obeyed his whimsical commands, the eyes of Ruperto, his friend, and his own, so that they would not be able to look at me, poor things, ever again.

  The Man Who Belonged to Me

  Giovanni Papini, Italian short-story writer and essayist. Born in Florence in 1871; died in Florence in 1956. Translator of Berkeley, Bergson, Boutroux, James and Schopenhauer. Author of Il tragico quotidiano (1906), Vita de Nessuno (1912), Un Uomo Finito (1912), L’uomo Carducci (1918), L’Europa Occidentale contra la Mitteleuropa (1918), Sant’ Agostino (1931).

  I

  I can’t say exactly how long Amico Dite’s body and soul had been following mine, because I left off keeping a diary years ago. I am rather absent-minded, so probably I did not notice what day my second shadow (a solid and more or less living shadow) happened to make its entrance on the dim stage of my life.

  One morning, as I was leaving home, I noticed I was being followed by a man of about forty, who wore a long blue overcoat; he seemed gay and lively (but not too much so) and followed me at a respectful distance so that I could not very well turn round and ask him what he was doing. I had nothing in particular to do, and I had only come out to get away from the sound of a wood fire crackling in the grate; so I amused myself watching this man although there was nothing remarkable about his appearance. I was sure he wasn’t a detective, because I’m so lacking in physical courage, and I so much dislike being talked about that I have always kept out of active politics, and laziness and clumsiness in any sort of manual work have saved me from earning my living through crime. I didn’t think this man in blue could be a thief after my purse. Everyone in the neighbourhood knew I was rather poor; and you could tell I wasn’t rich by looking at my clothes, which were untidy, not studiedly careless.

  Although there was no reason why I should have been followed, I began going round and round the complicated streets in the middle of the town, to make sure I hadn’t made a mistake about it. The man still followed me, looking more and more pleased as he went on. I turned off into one of the principal streets, and began to walk more quickly; but there was still the same distance between me and the man in blue. I went into a post office to buy a three-halfpenny stamp; the unknown man came into the same shop and also bought a three-halfpenny stamp. Then I got into a tram; my smiling follower got in too, and when I got out, he got out just behind me. I bought a paper and he bought exactly the same paper. I sat down on a bench, and he sat down on another bench quite close to me; I took out a cigarette, and he took one out too and waited to light his until I had lit mine.

  All this amused me and irritated me at the same time. ‘He may be a humorist with nothing to do,’ I thought, ‘so he wants to amuse himself at my expense.’ At last I made up my mind to solve the problem in the quickest way possible, so I went and stood in front of the man as if I were going to ask him who he was and what he wanted. But there was no need for me to ask him. The man in blue got up, took off his hat, smiled and said very quickly: ‘Excuse me—I’ll explain everything—but first let me introduce myself: I am Amico Dite. I haven’t any definite occupation but that doesn’t really matter. I’ve got lots of things to tell you but . . . well, up till now . . . I wanted to write to you—I actually did write to you two or three times but I don’t always send the letters I write. Otherwise I’m quite an ordinary kind of person, although you might sometimes think . . .’

  Here Amico Dite stopped and hesitated a little; then he went on quickly, as if he had suddenly remembered something extremely important:

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to drink something? A drop of Marsala perhaps—or some coffee?’

  We both went off together quickly as if we both had the same instinct to get the matter cleared up then and there. As soon as we saw a café we both dashed in, like people who want a drink at once in a great hurry. However, we sat down in a corner by the fire, without ordering anything. The café was little, and all full of smoke and cabbies and the waiter looked a fearful scoundrel; but we hadn’t time to choose anywhere else.

  ‘I should like to know . . .’ I began.

  ‘I’ll tell you all about everything,’ said the man. ‘I don’
t want to keep anything from you. I’m in rather a difficult and unfortunate situation—but I’ll tell you at once, I have the greatest trust in you. Here I am, then; I put myself in your hands. I’m yours to do what you like with . . .’

  ‘But I don’t see . . .’

  ‘I assure you, you’ll see everything in a moment. Let me explain. Didn’t I tell you who I was. I know, my name doesn’t tell you anything about me. Well, I’ll tell you what sort of person I am—I’m an ordinary man—appallingly ordinary; but I want to live in an extraordinary way, to have a really thrilling and amazing life.’

  ‘Forgive me . . .’

  ‘Yes, yes. I’ll forgive everything. Only as I told you, I simply must say what I have to say . . . I trust you implicitly. You shall be my saviour, my spiritual adviser, and master of my body and my soul. I’m too cautious, too respectable; I’m too much of a gentleman—too much just like myself. You’ve written so many fantastic stories, so many extraordinary novels—and I’ve lived so much among all your characters that I dream about them in the night and think about them in the daytime. I sometimes think I see them in the street and then, I get absolutely wild and despairing, I want to suppress them and forget them for ever and ever . . .’

  ‘Thank you . . . but . . .’

  ‘Wait one moment, please. I’ll explain now why I thought about you and why I followed you. A few days ago I said to myself: “You are a fool, the kind of person you can meet anywhere any day; and you’ve got this craze of wanting to live a glorious life, all risks and adventures, like the people in six-penny stories and cheap novels. But you’ve no imagination so you can’t expect to have that sort of life. The only thing to do is to look round till you find an author who makes up extra-ordinary characters, and make him a present of your life so that he can do whatever he likes with it and turn it into something really exciting and beautiful and unexpected . . .” ‘

  ‘So you’d like me to . . .?’

  ‘Just a moment, please. In a few minutes I shall do exactly what you want and then you can stop my talking when you like, only now I would like to finish what I’ve got to say. I still belong to myself for the moment! I’ve only one thing to tell you and that is—I’ve chosen you to be my director and so I make you a present of my life and whatever money you want to help you make it interesting. You have plenty of imagination and you’ll easily be able to break the ghastly monotony of my life. Up till now you have only been able to control imaginary people; but to day you’ve got a real man, who moves and who suffers and you can do whatever you like with him. I put myself in your hands—not like a corpse though. You wouldn’t know what to do with me if I died—but like a mechanical toy, an amazing marionette that can talk and laugh and do whatever you order it to. From now on, I give you my life and a thousand pounds a year, to pay for all the things you’ll need to make my life picturesque and adventurous. I’ve got the proper document here in my pocket . . . waiter, a pen and ink! There’s only the date and you signature missing. Say yes or no, just as you feel, but say it quickly!’

  I pretended to think it over for a few seconds, but I had really made up my mind already. Amico Dite was fulfilling one of my oldest desires. I had always been a little grieved that I could make up the lives only of imaginary people. In my spare moments I often thought of what I would do if I had a real flesh-and-blood creature to do what I liked with. Now the very man was offering himself up to me, with a good income thrown in as well.

  ‘I never waste time in bargaining,’ I said after my pretended consideration, ‘so I’ll accept your offer although you must realize what a great responsibility it is for me, taking charge of a soul and a body as well. Let’s see the conditions . . .’

  Amico Dite handed me an official-looking document in a thick gray paper cover and I read it in a few moments. Everything was in order. By signing this paper I became the rightful owner of the wealth and life of Amico Dite, the only condition being that I should constantly be directing him so that he should lead an illustrious and adventurous life. The contract lasted a year, but it could be renewed if Amico Dite was satisfied with the way I managed him.

  I signed without hesitation and left Amico Dite immediately; after having promised to write to him next day and ordering him not to follow me but to have some strong drink. And as I was going out I saw him ordering, with his usual charming smile, one of the most celebrated bitters in the world.

  II

  That evening I did not go to bed as terribly bored as I usually did. I had something new and important to think about, that was quite worth spending a sleepless night for. A man had become my property, and really belonged to me. I could lead him, drive him, send him anywhere I wanted; I could experiment with him and give him strange emotions and unheard of adventures.

  Now what could I make him do next day? Ought I to order him to do some fixed thing, or should I leave him in the dark and then spring something on him suddenly? Finally I chose something that combined the two methods. Next day I wrote and told him that until he heard to the contrary, he was to sleep all day and spend the night out of doors wandering about in all sorts of lonely places. Next day I went to an estate agent’s and took a lonely house outside the town for six months. Then I hired two of the unemployed who were looking for work for the winter. In four days everything was ready. On the appointed evening I had Amico Dite followed, and when he had got out into a lonely place, my accomplices attacked him and took him, gagged and bound, to the house I had ready. Unfortunately no one noticed what we were doing, and no one reported the mysterious disappearance of Amico Dite; so I had to provide for two strong men, who wanted paying as well as feeding, for several months.

  The worst of it was that I had not the slightest idea what to do with this man who belonged to me. On the evening of his gift, I had thought that kidnapping him would be an excellent beginning for an exciting life but I had not bothered to think about what could happen afterwards. Yet even Amico Dite’s life wanted its next instalment at once, like a newspaper serial.

  As I could think of nothing better I resorted to the old trick of sending to live with him, in the little house where I had installed him, a woman who was always masked and never spoke to him. It was very difficult finding a woman who would agree to do this; and even more difficult to train her, and even then she wouldn’t engage herself for more than a month. Luckily Amico Dite was something of a misogynist and was over forty, so none of the things you might have expected actually did happen. After a fortnight I realized that I should have to change my tactics; so I had my two unemployed set my man free, and I sent him back to his home.

  I began to realize that Amico Dite hadn’t behaved in the least like the ordinary man he said he was when he made me take charge of him like this. Who else but a really queer person would have imagined such a subtle kind of slavery?

  A man I knew who was an excellent swordsman agreed to help me at this juncture. One day, when Amico Dite was sitting quietly drinking a glass of milk in a very smart café, this man came up and glared at him; then he jostled him and as soon as Dite said something, he slapped him two or three times quite calmly as if he did not want to hurt him too much. Amico Dite asked my permission to send his seconds to challenge the man who had insulted him; I produced two of my friends who obliged him to fight although he did not want to in the least. Amico Dite knew nothing whatever about duelling and it was just because of this that he struck out violently at the very beginning and wounded his adversary seriously. I took this opportunity of explaining to him that he must leave the town at once, but he would not hear of going away without me; he preferred being tried before the Court, and so he got himself sentenced to three months’ imprisonment.

  I really thought I should be free from him for that time, but after a day or two I began thinking it was my duty to set Amico Dite free. It seemed almost impossible; but, by means of bribes, I managed to convince two people that what I was doing was an excellent thing; and so, perfectly disguised, Amico Dite succeeded
in getting out of the prison one day just before dawn. This time he really had to go into exile, so I had to leave my house, my work and my country all in order to arrange his escape.

  When we reached London I was in a greater muddle than ever. I couldn’t speak a word of English, and in the midst of that huge unknown city I was less than ever in a position to find any exciting adventures for my man’s benefits. Finally I had to ask the advice of a private detective, who gave me some vague instructions in abominable French. After consulting a good map of London, I took Amico Dite into the most disreputable parts, but, to my great annoyance, nothing whatever happened to him there. We came across the usual drunken sailors, the usual painted brazen-faced women, and numbers of noisy thrifty ‘viveurs,’ but no one paid any attention to us; perhaps they thought we were something to do with the police, we looked so sure of ourselves wandering round the mazes of little streets that are all exactly alike.

  Then I had the idea of sending Amico Dite all by himself into the North of England, and giving him only twenty or thirty shillings beyond his railway fare. As he knew no English either I hoped something very disagreeable might happen to him or, better still, that he might never come back at all. I was really getting tired of this man who belonged to me, and for whom I worked so hard and gave up so much; I was simply longing for the day when I could get back to my own dear old town full of cafés and loiterers. But after a fortnight had gone by Amico Dite came back to London in perfect health and spirits. He had come across an Italian friend of his in Edinburgh—a ’cellist who had gone to Scotland years ago, and who had asked him to stay and amused him during the time he was there.

  But I wouldn’t give up yet. In some newspaper I had seen the address of a little club for psychical research, that was looking for new members; it promised them they would see real spirits, ghosts who could talk and so on. I ordered Amico Dite to apply for membership immediately and to go there regularly every evening. He kept on going for a week and saw nothing at all; then one morning he came to me and told me that he had actually met a ghost, but that it wasn’t much better than ordinary men. Indeed it seemed to have been rather more foolish than most people because it stole his handkerchief, took away his chair from under him, pulled his hair and hit him in the back.