Fernando Sdrigotti - Jolts.

If they dont see happiness in the picture, at least theyll see the black.

C hris M arker

A packed unmoving train in Clapham Junction. What happened before is beyond the point this train could be everything there is to this world. A packed train where the air stinks of caf latte and where the passengers are starting to tut and puff in their winter coats and jackets. Faces, one after the other, all bleary-eyed and lethargic.

Hes reading the news on his iPad, learning that some celebrity he doesnt know has left the jungle on a TV show he doesnt watch. His train is delayed or cancelled all trains are, because of the snow. But what really bothers him this morning is the guy who was listening to his music without headphones on the 341 bus from Angel Road Superstores to Waterloo. The guy was listening to Nirvana and suddenly twenty years passed since Nirvana, one after the other, on that 341 bus. Its not about Nirvana, of course: its about time and about him being out of synch with himself.

Im walking with Walter when we bump into Julio on the corner of Corrientes and Tucumn, Rosario. Julio is pissing against a wall, off his head, talking to himself, almost falling with his pants all the way down to his ankles and a tetrapack of wine in his left hand. Its a hot and humid summer night and it will rain mixing glue with wine is a bad idea on nights like these. He finishes pissing and turns around and comes our way, still with his pants down, hopping like a kangaroo, until he pulls them up. Hes wearing his Nirvana tee, the same one hes been wearing since 1995, and doesnt recognise me. He tries to mug me. I grab him by the neck and tell him, Julio, you cunt, its me. He smiles: two of his front teeth are missing. He gets a piece of paper from his pocket and tells me, Look, it came back negative, as if it was the most normal thing to say. The paper looks dodgy and people have been saying hes got AIDS for a while, but he might as well be negative for all I care. He doesnt apologise for trying to rob me and walks away and shouts, Say hi to the guys. I tell Walter that somebody should shoot Julio before he kills someone. Walter doesnt say anything. Two weeks later Julio gets killed when he tries to rob a drunkard who happened to be an off-duty cop. The news makes me happy.

The train is still packed and once again not moving an inch. People stare at their shiny little screens; their necks will hurt later on. A montage of long miserable faces and then cut to green fields, beaches, Paris, prairies, Kathmandu, Shangri-La, Siberia, Tokyo, Iceland, Cape Verde, lakes and mountains, or just Blackpool anywhere the passengers would rather be. And a wide river. And Prague. And Dublin.

Marcos is talking and talking and talking and I listen and drink and listen and drink. Were in a place called Clair de Lune in Montmartre, the only place we could find open. Sabina is here. She doesnt drink and frowns every time I take the wine glass to my mouth. Marcos speaks in Argentinian and I listen in Argentinian and someone else is speaking in Argentinian at the back of the bar. Someone insults someone else in Argentinian at the back of the bar. Theres some pushing and shoving and someone leaves and the space between us and the back of the bar is cleared and I see Walter. We stare at each other and move fast between the tables and chairs and we embrace. We cant believe were both here, in Paris of all places, living the clich of the Argentine intellectual abroad. We stare at each other as if we are hallucinating and maybe we are. But its great to see weve both got out of Rosario and didnt end up in Miami, speaking in Cuban. He comes up to our table and now does the talking and we get seriously drunk, Marcos, Walter and I.

And to make matters worse hes just received an email from a literary mag saying the editors have read a fiction piece he submitted almost a year ago: the editors have read your piece with interest, and although they found it well written the editors do not appreciate the jolts in time; they also felt that the ending was inconclusive, as if this story was a fragment from a broader story. They now want him to edit it considering their comments. The problem is the piece is called Jolts and is precisely about jolts in time and space, about how some of us are more sensitive to fragments and how some of us are more fragmented than the rest, particularly on some days.

I can feel my stomach coming through my mouth as I kneel before the toilet seat. Nothing comes out of my mouth besides my stomach because theres nothing else in there Im vomiting fear. Sabina is standing by the door, saying shes sorry but that shes got to do it. Shes holding a small Samsonite suitcase, my suitcase. And she does it, she leaves and takes off for Prague the following morning. And I dont see her for over a year, until we meet to sign the divorce papers and she gives me back my suitcase. Its my favourite suitcase.

The editors do not appreciate your jolts in time. Everything about that statement makes him sick: the academic snobbery of avoiding contractions, the passive aggressive appreciate instead of a right-out hate, their use of the third person plural. Who are the editors? Why dont they appreciate his jolts in time? How do they live lives without jolts? What do they mean by inconclusive? Should the piece end with a description of Armageddon? How can anything be conclusive when theres always the next fragment to come? He wishes them death. He wishes them that conclusiveness. Before they kill someone.

The square is called Plaza de los Locos there used to be an asylum here twenty years or so ago. Cristian, Julio, Chor, and Esteban are here with me; were drinking warm white wine and smoking and were pretty drunk and stoned. Julio fidgets for a while in his pocket and gets a small replica gun out. He points it at Cristian and pulls the trigger and the hammer makes a dry noise. We all laugh. Then he points it at me but doesnt pull the trigger. He points it at Chor and pulls the trigger and theres that dry sound and we all laugh again. Then the same with Esteban. This is the one I used to rob those wankers, he says and points it to the ground and pulls the trigger and theres this loud BANG! and a bullet bounces on the floor leaving a tiny cloud before it disappears into the night. Julios face briskly turns pale and Chor jumps up, pulls the gun from Julios hand and slaps him across the face. Julio falls from the bench and Chor moves to him, mounts him, and starts slapping him with the front and the back of his hand, calling him a snotty cunt over and over again until we stop him. Now Julios nose is bleeding and his right eye starts to swell. We leave him there crying and go to the pier to throw the gun into the river.

We throw it as far as we can, hoping it will sink into the canal that used to carry the big transatlantic cargos before the ships stopped coming and everyone started to talk about leaving.

An empty carriage by the platform. Litter, free newspapers, paper cups, a forgotten smartphone. The doors are open. Theres nobody in the station save for a couple of guards. It starts snowing once again. A beautiful snow that gets into the train and slowly melts into a shapeless mud.