Insomnia
Autor: Pedro Carvalho | Publicado: 2011-04-20T07:57:00-07:00



Sleep, Dalí
There  were only sounds of non-living things on – a dying roar reverberating  in the whole house. The bathroom had a leaking that never stopped – tic,  tic, tic, tic; the fridge snored on starvation as it needed to be fed; a  noise of detuned radio was always on the air, even when it was off; the  TV, bringing other people’s reality and also fantasies in, cracked –  tac, tac, tac; the floor cracked – tac; the roof yelled as it collapsed,  but it never would; the microwave beeped, continuously, counting the  hours.
An  unusual noise broke off from the roar and took Peter Harvey’s attention  – it was not a meow, but a sardonic purr. Harvey goggled at the compact  range of his three-room apartment and found a cat staring at him, its  tail curved over its back. A cat?,  he questioned himself in amazement, yet quite sure of the impossible  presence of such an animal in his place. He shook his head in  disapproval of his own thought as to vanish the image of the purring cat  from his mind. In fact, it did disappear, but there was still the  hovering of that sound in the tiny only-one-living-person apartment.
Beep,  beep: the microwave announced the time spreading an echoing wave of  electronic sound – one more hour had gone off, and now it was 3am. Peter  Harvey fixed himself on the couch as to avoid having silly thoughts,  started zapping the TV, but could not help his eyes when he saw feline  references every channel he surfed. Reasonably, Harvey came to the  conclusion that he should be tired, and should not cheat himself of his  sleep, and went straight to bed.
Peter could not sleep.
Undoubtedly,  he was intrigued by the cat, but the reason he could not sleep is that  falling asleep was his most difficult daily scuffle.
Lights:  off. Non-living sounds: on. Cat purr: still on. Peter Harvey: on. Peter  struggled to sleep. As if a storm was brewing in his way, he battled  the blanket and blanketed himself waiting for protection, but he rolled  all over the bed which made it clanck, and his arms embraced and folded  the pillow as if it was a rock, an anchor where he could cling on to –  Peter was awake. Tic, tic, tic – the tap dropped water rhythmically.  Tac, tac, tac, tac – the floor cracked. Insistently the microwave –  beep! – announced another hour. A bit later chirps broke the roaring and  not much longer, natural light invaded the rooms, as did a thousand of  other vibrant and living things’ sounds. By that time, Peter was  exhausted and let himself be overcome by tiredness, falling asleep. It  was already something past six and he had about three or so hours of  sleep before showering, having-coffee-and-a-puff and heading to work.  Peter was still, he lay on the bed much more as a corpse than as someone who rests.
Ring,  ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, ring,  ring, ring, ring... rang the alarm which was set for 9h15 everyday, but  Sundays. It rang – ring, ring, ring, ring, ring – but Peter did not  move.
The  roar that shares the house with Peter is now muffled with the external  sounds of the morning. Cosy, he wakes up, the morning sunshine comes  through the window-panes and joins the scent of fresh coffee spread all  around the house. He stretches lazily without opening the eyes, his arms  widely opened are ready to embrace a new day. He yawns and opens the  eyes and there it is: a cat, also yawning and walking the lazy and  elegant cat walk over the blanket towards his lap.
For  quite a while, Peter freezes in amazement and so does the cat. The ice  is broken only when the kitten purrs slyly and starts rubbing its  whiskers on his hands holding the blanket. Scared, the man –  discrediting of that scene – all of  a sudden, jumps out of the bed and finds himself standing in the same  room which lodges lounge-room and kitchen. The small round dining-table  is set for breakfast: freshly baked bread, cakes, muffins, biscuits,  eggs and bacon, butter, all sort of jams, fresh coffee, tea and milk.
On one side there is the cat sat, reading the papers; on the other, a free seat waiting for him. Peter is muted.
 ‘Bonjour, monsieur Harvey. Le petit déjeuner est servi,’ says the cat in such a natural tone, ‘asseyez vous.’Peter goggles as much as it is possible.
‘Quel  chat stupide que je suis, pourquoi suis-je en train de parler en  français avec vous? Excusez-moi! Oh, again! I’m so sorry. What I meant  was: breakfast is served, have a seat!’
‘Je... je... je vous ai entendu’, stammers Peter. ‘Wait, je ne parle pas français.’
‘Oh, now you do. You are so smart, mon ami’, the kitten folds the papers and serves himself a cup of tea.
‘Will you stand there the whole morning? Le petit déjeuner est superbe!’
Peter Harvey oddly accepts the invitation, not for curiosity, but for the incapability to control his movements. ‘Non, rien...’ the cat starts humming a French song.
Peter  stands still on the chair. Desperately he tries to scream, but from his  mouth only comes French, and then he shuts up. He tries to move, but  his arms are tied on the chair, his eyes are strained by upper and lower  extremities with tape, and his ears seem to explode for the deafening  sound of loud rings.
Peter  Harvey was eyes wide opened, but couldn’t move, his body could not  break off the bed. He also could not breathe and then choked. When  regained the breath, he jumped off the bed as to accomplish something  that could not be waited for, and dove deeply into the new day which had  just been deflowered by the possibilities of the night.