By Pedro Mairal
Translated by Joanna Richardson
As the Sabrina Love Show had not yet started, Daniel zapped his way up and down the sixty channels of the illegally connected cable TV, letting the images flash past him. A newsreader, the bottom of the sea, some giraffes, a car chase, Venezuelan women talking, volcanic lava, the motorways at dawn in Spain, a man looking terrified, hands decorating a cake. Let us see th. You’ll never be able. Le plus belle du mon. Solute disaster. Allóra il vècchio. A great cut. The plains of. Stop it, Laura. A single story at full speed where the sun from the weather map shone on the documentary about lions in Kenya that were showing their teeth in exactly the same position as the American couple on the porn channel who were also showing their teeth and closing their eyes as though they wanted to forget the picture on the news of those Iraqis who were pointing their machine guns at the Argentinian goalie who fell to his knees and raised his arms because he knew he would be shot and saw his whole life in an instant starting with the cartoons he used to watch as a kid. A never-ending story that Daniel tried to speed up as though he could shorten the time until Sabrina Love’s programme. He only lingered over a couple kissing as they undressed in the blue shadow of a B movie, hoping to postpone the shot of the fireplace melting into the front of the building the next day where the actress was making a great effort to pull the sheets up to her neck.