67.

I stumble off the tram at Carnerigasse, stagger past the convenience store where I buy my Mini Fritts and Manner wafers—I wonder if they have any of that Vegemite yet?—and lurch towards my apartment. It’s all right. I have to calm down. It’s just a brain tumour, nothing to get worked up about. It’s not like all my memories of Graz were just fabricated from scraps of the Internet, embellished like grains of sand into pearls. Wait—I’ve heard that somewhere before. Or maybe I haven’t. Anyway, it’s not that bad, it’s just that I’m going to die. Or perhaps not even that. Maybe it’s operable.

Kirsten is back at my apartment. I don’t know how she got in. But she’s sitting on the floor, cradling Bennett in her arms. She has the letter from eMonic.com uncrumpled on the floor beside her. Does she know that I read it? Did I crumple it wrong when I stuffed it back in the envelope? She’s crying, great big American tears are rolling down her smooth, round cheeks. Does she know about my tumour?

“I’m sorry,” she says.

• 25/11/08
• Arquivos