The Boy Who Stole Attila's Horse by Iván Repila Read Free Book Online Page B

thought that the world was a horrible place. I couldn’t sleep for weeks, for months.’
    ‘Why are you telling me this?’
    ‘Because I want you to understand that I am not afraid of dying, I don’t base my life on the knowledge that one day it will all end. There are times when life presents circumstances where the only recourse is a radical move, an extraordinary sacrifice, and I can accept that. What I couldn’t bear, though, would be to see you grow up in a wasteland, like this well; a place to die with no peace,all because of the apathy of civilization. A cemetery in which to wither, like a flower that won’t ever help the land to grow. It is the thought of you dying that makes the world so small.’

59
    S MALL HAS NAMED himself Inventor and he organizes cultural activities for his brother, although really he does it because he cannot stop imagining.
    He has perfected what he has called ‘osteo-vegetable music’, which is what comes from hitting certain bones with dry roots. He rehearses on his own body, above all with his knees, hips, torso and collarbone. But what he’d really love would be to somehow rotate his head and arms and rock out on his spine. His extreme boniness makes him look like a misshapen neighbourhood made up entirely of street corners, and this affords him an inordinate range of obscure, high-pitched sounds which come together as a tune when he strums his tendons and thumps his stomach and chest. The result is a series of concerts with a hard, repetitive bass line, but which boast brief flashes of harmony so that, skeletal origins aside, one can appreciate a certain musicality. Apart from the symphonies, Small takes particular pleasure from his elaborate overtures, where with great ceremony he takes up position—to play himself—and explains the contents of the works with such unfeignedtitles as ‘Kneecap and Ribs Song’, ‘Hungry Fingers’ and ‘At Night a Cranium’.
    He also organizes outings to The Well Space, home to various temporary art exhibitions. He dedicates a lot of time to finger-painting on the walls: generally abstract pieces embellished with stones, roots and rotten leaves. Unfortunately he can only draw one or two works in the space available to him, and in order to make room for new installations he is obliged, much to his sadness, to delete the old ones. Had it been possible to preserve every one of them and arrange them chronologically, an astute observer would have picked up on his painstaking narration of life inside the well, a kind of pagan Stations of the Cross. Wolves Smelling Men, The Arrival of the Sea, First Worm , or The Bird of Virtuous Death were acclaimed works and only just missed forming part of The Well Space’s permanent collection.
    Energy levels permitting, his creativity extends to another kind of pursuit, one that requires greater exertions: gestural theatre, folk dances, human sculptures and contortionism, activities that Big also takes part in on occasion. But the privation of recent times has reduced the number of festivals, much treasured when they do go ahead.
    At the end of the day’s line-up, Big spends a few minutes applauding, whistling and hear-hearing like a doting public. Afterwards, if he finds Small in good spirits, he calls for anencore and bows in reverence until he gets one, at which point they fall about laughing at the unintended variations on the show, always unrepeatable.
    A few hours later, famished and exhausted, they can hardly remember what they have done, seen or heard.

61
    ‘ W HO ARE YOU? ’ asks Small.
    ‘You know who I am,’ answers Small.
    ‘How did you get here?’
    ‘The same way as you. Falling into the well.’
    ‘Where have you been these past weeks? I haven’t seen you before.’
    ‘I kept quiet.’
    ‘And now you want to talk?’
    ‘Let’s.’
     
    Big is snoring like a wild boar.
     
    ‘Am I going to die?’ asks Small.
    ‘Yes. One day. Does that worry you?’ answers Small.
    ‘Sometimes.